


Sawdust & Snow

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geographical Isolation, Hurt/Comfort, Lumberjack Scott, M/M, POV Scott McCall, Scott-Centric, Slow Build, Woodworker Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 63,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unforgiving landscape of the boreal forest is the perfect metaphor for Scott's life, ten years after escaping Beacon Hills: cold, quiet, and only barely habitable. An unexpected knock on the door sends the walls he's built crumbling, just in time for the long, harsh winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>   
>  A playlist for this fic can be found [here.](http://8tracks.com/quicklikelight/sawdust-and-snow)  
>   
> 
> 
> It's been a long time since I posted a WIP as I was writing it. I know we all hate that -forgive me, please. This just is a story I really wanted to write and get out, but there was no way it was happening all in my Google Drive, so I'm posting as I go. I will attempt to keep to a semi-regular schedule - as you can see from [the tag](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com/tagged/Sawdust+and+Snow/chrono), the first several chapters are already drafted in ficlet form, so there's plenty there to explore that should keep me on schedule before things branch off into new territory.
> 
> Many thanks go to [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com) for consistently encouraging this AU and drawing amazing art for it (which will be posted in the appropriate chapters), to [Michele](http://neverwhere.tumblr.com) for the swift and helpful beta read, and to [Cor](http://teamsciles.tumblr.com) for being excited about this story and prompting me to take another look at it. 
> 
> And thanks in advance to you, readers, who will be the driving force behind my getting my act back together, writing-wise. Feel free to use the comments or my askbox on tumblr to ask questions, suggest things you'd like to see, or just tell me how hot Scott would be with long curls and flannel. <3

He can feel it in the air as he tramps through the shallow snowcover already on the ground, checking the water system and battening down the various hatches that make the cabin livable year-round. The storm will come tonight - the one that will cut him off from humanity for months, make the roads into town basically impassable via anything but a snowmobile that offers no protection from the bitter cold. The one he dreads every year, but comes regardless. He makes himself breathe in a lungful of biting air, makes his eyes water at the sting.

He doesn’t like the cold. Actually, he really _hates_ the cold. He hates the way it burns, like memories of a fire he wasn’t there for but still has, hates that it isolates him, that it pens him in, hates that it feels like a cage that melts but doesn’t break, omnipresent and inescapable. He hates it, but he needs it - it protects him, keeps him safe from those who would kill him, who would take his power and use it to kill others. So he lets himself be bitterly resigned to it, and moves about the business of survival. It isn’t what anyone would call living, but it’s the only way he knows now.

Snow sticks to his boots as he makes his way back to the cabin door via the little path he’s worn down. They’re new, shiny black leather that’s stiff on his feet, cracks a little in the cold. He takes a detour toward the workshop, the boots reminding him of the order he wanted to get into town before nightfall. The sun’s already high in the sky, turning everything blinding and a little blue - but he can probably make it there and back before the storm.

The workshop smells like pine and cedar, the trees he has the most access to here. There are woodshavings all over the floor. He used to sweep them up every night, meticulous about his workspace, but it’s been three years since the business really took off and he just doesn’t do it anymore. Well - that’s a lie, Scott thinks. It isn’t that he just doesn’t do it now. It’s that he stopped. One night, sick to death with loneliness and near the limits of his patience with the project he was working on - a customized gaming table for some geeks in Winnipeg - he picked up the old broom he used to clean the sawdust off the floor and broke it over his knee.

It’s still there in the corner of the room - a broken handle and a little brush-end. He’d throw it out, but he sort of likes looking at it. It’s nice to be reminded of a time when he’d felt something so strongly, even if that something was anger about the ridiculousness of hand-carving channels for dice placement into a table. It seems like everything is quiet in him now, even the sound of his heartbeat dampened by the sawdust on the floor and the snow on the ground.

The chairs he built for Dr. Wiecko are sitting polished and ready in the loading bay, covered with safety wrap and taped for security. They aren’t large, just six dining chairs to go with the table he built for the Wieckos last year, but it takes some maneuvering to get them into the bed of the truck just right. By the time he’s done, he’s had to peel off his coat and push up the sleeves of his layered shirts, and sweat drips freely down the side of his face.

“Where’s my rag?” he asks the empty space around him, looking for one of the many hand towels he keeps in the shop for - well, a variety of things. There are lots of uses for hand towels. Not that it matters - there’s never one there when he needs it, even if he’s the only one around.

Well. Almost the only one.

The soft scrape of claws against the wall heralds her arrival before Vesta’s head pushes through the dog door he mounted especially for her the summer before last. He’s a bit surprised to see her home so soon - Vesta’s independent, even for a husky, and he rarely sees her during the day when it’s still nice out. She’s a smart girl, though. If he can smell the change in the air coming, she can probably feel it down to her bones. She lopes over to the slightly messy counter where he keeps most of his designs and intricate whittling tools and nabs a ragged hand towel gently between her teeth. It’s a little wet when it gets to him, but Scott uses the dry end to wipe his face while Vesta shakes free the snow clinging to her fur.

“Decided to join me, huh?” Scott laughs. “Gettin’ pretty cold out there. I’m heading to town to drop off chairs and stop for supplies. You want to go? Probably be our last chance for a while - we could stop at Miller’s and get a treat before we come home -”

Vesta can’t answer him with her voice, obviously, but she doesn’t have to - before he’s even tossed the rag back on the counter she’s sitting next to the pick-up, ears pricked forward to show her excitement.

“Alright, girl.” He can’t help but grin as he pulls open the door and she jumps up into the cab of the old truck without missing a beat. “Let’s get on the road. I want to be home before dark.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Well, now, son - it was real nice of ya to rush the order like that but ya know you didn’t have ta -”

“It isn’t a problem, Dr. Wiecko,” Scott says with a smile as he finishes pulling the wrapping material off of the last chair, inspecting it for damage. They weren’t outside long, but the cold does strange things to the wood sometimes, and he doesn’t want to risk leaving the Wieckos with chairs that won’t hold them through the winter. “Sit down and see if you like them?”

“Now I’m sure that isn’t necessary -” Dr. Wiecko says, but his wife Amelia is already having a seat, scooting up to the table with a grin.

“I’ll need to order some fabric for cushions,” she says, and winks at Scott.

“Amelia don’t you talk like that - like ya don’t have ten kinds of cushion fabrics in that damned closet of yours -”

Scott has to stifle a laugh behind his hand as the good Doctor gets rolling, and his wife’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“If that’s all, I’m just going to -” he says quietly, backing toward the door.

_“We already talked about your hobby expenses, Amelia, and I’m putting my foot down - I am, you hear me? No more of this ordering -”_

Scott closes the door as quietly as he can and runs back out to the truck, still running with Vesta inside. He pulled off his parka while he was unpacking the chairs and the brief, sharp touch of the cold on his skin makes him yelp quietly, wish it was on his shoulders instead of in his hands. Still, the interior of the cab is nice and toasty, and he doesn’t resist when Vesta presses close to his side, pushes her cool nose to his neck just under the ear. He does laugh though, and if an animal as regal as Vesta could look delighted, she does.

“Alright! First chore done. What’s next?” He backs carefully out of the Wieckos’ driveway, eyes peeled for people salting or shoveling. Here in town life will continue as best it can after the storm - roads will get cleared, buses will take children to and from their little school building, shipments and mail will come in once a week on the old delivery truck. Things will hum along through winter much like they normally do, and the people will mostly forget about him until spring, when he’ll emerge from the snowdrifts like the first tender shoot of green that heralds the coming thaw. “We could go get supplies next. Or...”

Vesta moves excitedly to the passenger side window, pressing her face to the glass. She gives a short, sharp bark as Miller’s Creamery comes into view.

“Treats it is,” Scott says, dragging one hand down her ruff to soothe her as he pulls into what passes for the village square: a handful of buildings in a sort of ragged semi-circle with a pagoda in the middle. _At least there’s always plenty of parking_ , he thinks. The parka goes back on for the walk across the square - the wind is picking up, and Scott doesn’t want to be caught without his coat again today. Miller already has the door open for them when they reach the building, and a bowl on the floor for Vesta, full of the special ice cream he keeps on hand for his own dogs.

“Didn’t figure we’d be seeing you up this way again so soon,” Miller says, heading back behind the old soda shop counter to make Scott a classic Coke Float, just like he always gets. Scott throws his coat over one of the barstools and leans against the bar, gently touching the vintage toys that line it while Miller operates the soda fountain. “Weren’t you just in town last week?”

“The Wieckos ordered some chairs,” Scott says. The first sip of the float is delicious - creamy-sweet and indulgent, like a lot of things he rarely has anymore. It doesn’t exactly remind him of home because he didn’t develop a taste for floats until a year or two ago, but it does make him ache a little for something that feels like childhood. He slides a five across the bar and waves it away when Miller indicates making change. Vesta licks eagerly at the cream in the dish, scooching it across the tile floor.

“What - they order rush delivery? Seems unlike Wiecko -” Miller says dubiously. “Unless of course you don’t charge extra for that.”

“Hey now,” Scott protests, but he can’t help but laugh. Miller isn’t that much older than Scott - 34, maybe, to Scott’s 29 - and it feels almost like being with a friend every time he comes into the little soda shop. “You can’t fault a guy for being thrifty.”

“And I wouldn’t!” Miller uses a rag to mop up the counter where the ice cream scoop dripped. “I can, however, definitely fault a guy for being cheaper than dirt.”

“I seem to recall dirt being pretty pricy when I was trying to get the holes in my driveway filled last summer,” Scott says before taking another drink. Vesta licks the bowl clean down by his feet, and then bumps his leg until he gives up and scratches behind her ears, one-handed. “I wanted to get the chairs dropped off before the roads got too bad to drive the truck.”

“Before you disappear for the winter,” Miller corrects, and winks at him. He’s always been a lot less subtle about pointing out that Scott doesn’t _have_ to be a complete hermit than everyone else in town.

“Well, you know, if I come back too early I might see my shadow. Spring won’t show up until July.” Scott uses his straw to swirl the ice cream into the little bit of soda left with a self-deprecating smile.

“So you’re a groundhog? That’s the big secret?” Millar laughs. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

“Oh yeah?” Scott finishes off his drink, suddenly queasy - whether from the sugar overload or the mention of secrets, he isn’t sure. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, something exciting - a vampire, or a werewolf maybe.”

All the hair on the back of Scott’s neck goes up, but he keeps his breathing slow and even, forces himself to grin sunnily at the soda jerk.

“Maybe I’m the abominable snowman,” he says, and turns his back before Miller can see him wince.

_Werewolves, hunters, kanimas... It's like a frickin' Halloween party every full moon! Except for you, Stiles. What do you turn into?_

_Abominable snowman. But it's more of, like, a wintertime thing. You know, seasonal._

“We should hurry, Vesta,” Scott says, as soon as he knows his voice isn’t going to break. “Gotta get supplies and get home before it starts coming down.” Outside the sky is already darkening. He doesn’t need much from the store, but he’d rather not start the winter without a full stock of everything he might want. He slaps the counter gently, eyes glued to Vesta’s face. “Thanks for the pick-us-up, man. I’ll see you in March, probably.”

“I dunno,” Miller calls after him, and Scott can hear the sound of the till opening. “Weatherman says it’s going to be a rough one. Might be April before the roads are clear enough to drive the truck again, but any time you want to come stay for a weekend or something, there’ll be a warm place for you to sleep. You don’t have to -”

Scott knows it’s rude, but he lets the door cut off Miller’s well-intended speech. He’s too tired for speeches, especially ones everyone knows aren’t going to work.

Mr. Baker’s general store already has a “Closed” sign hanging in the window, but he opens the door for Scott and ushers the two of them in out of the wind.

“Nothin’ wrong out at the cabin s’there Scotty?” Mr. Baker asks, brow furrowed. There’s a fuzzy cap pulled down over his ears, protecting his bald head, and he’s got on at least two sweaters. Scott empathizes.

“Nah, Mr. Baker - the cabin’s great. She looks like she’s going weather the winter just fine,” he says, scanning the shelves for the few things he forgot to get last week.

“F’only the weather this winter would be fine too!” Baker laughs. “That reminds me though - I got something for ya. Thought I’d have ta hang on to it ‘til spring, but since yer here and ya got that truck…” He disappears into the storeroom in the back, leaving Scott to snag the stuff he needs - a ten pound bag of coffee beans, an econo-sized pack of fresh 2A batteries, a big bag of salt. He hesitates over the razors, scraping a hand through the rough beard he’s kept trimmed through the fall, and decides to skip them. There’s no one to see him in the winter but Vesta, and it isn’t like she cares if he shaves. He does snag an extra twenty-four pack of clean-scented deodorant, though, and a case of body wash to compliment his stash at home. He loads his items onto a pallet dolly, along with a case of beeswax candles and a little package of lavender scented bath salts.

“S’a good choice, them,” Baker says as he comes out of the back with a heavy box on another dolly. “The wife, she likes that kind.”

“They smell good,” Scott says with a grin. He’s never met Mrs. Baker - she doesn’t come to the store much - but he feels like they’d get along well.

“Put it on yer tab like usual?” Baker asks, already tallying everything up on his little notepad.

“Yeah - we should be all settled up, right?” Scott tries to calculate in his head last time Deaton sent a package - that’s generally when he and Baker settle the score of Scott’s day-to-day necessities.

“Settled up and then some. That Dad o’ yours spoils ya rotten, son.” Baker grins at him, and Scott just shrugs, a little uncomfortable. If only he knew.

“What’s in the box?” he changes the subject. “I haven’t made any orders.”

“I know,” Baker smiles, heaving the box up off of the dolly and pushing it across the counter. It’s obviously heavy, so Scott struggles a little with it to keep him from noticing anything’s off. Once it’s loaded onto his pallet, he looks back at the shopkeeper with eyebrows high, as if to ask, _So?_ “My daughter Elizabeth sent us a shipment of books from that charity she runs down in the States. I know you’re a reader - I picked out some things I thought you’d like, packed ‘em up all nice for ya.”

For a second, Scott’s afraid he’ll cry. Tears well up in his eyes, his nose itches, his throat feels tight and hot - he has to choke down a little whimper before he can say, “Um, th- thank you. Mr. Baker that’s - that’s very kind.”

“Not at all, Scotty,” Baker says, grabbing Scott gently by the shoulder and patting him. The touch feels strange, foreign - no one touches him here except the shopkeeper, and he’s an old man burdened by years of hard rural life, so those touches are generally few and far between. Scott treasures every one of them. “You get on home now - I don’t want you getting my girl stuck in the snow.”

“Aw, the truck should make it,” Scott says, glancing out toward the old red pick-up. “She did alright coming down here, and there hasn’t been any snowfall since we left.”

“The thing’s liable to break down at any second just from being looked at too hard,” Baker argues, helping him steer out the shop door and toward the truck, parked near the curb. “But that ain’t what I meant.” He reaches down to scratch Vesta’s ears, give her a treat from his pocket. Scott rolls his eyes - the villagers spoil Vesta rotten, and she’s impossible to live with for a few days after every trip to town. “You get her home and inside before things get too bad, and take care of yourself, too. If you happen to need anything -”

“Wait until it’s stopped snowing, I know,” Scott grins, loading the last of the items into the back of the truck and closing the cover to protect them.

“You’ll call?”

“First of the month, like always,” Scott assures him.

“I’ll be looking forward to it then,” Baker says, and claps him on the shoulder once more. “Stay warm, Scott.”

“You too, Mr. Baker.”

The truck starts with a groan just as the first snowflakes begin to fall, fat and soft.

“Let’s get home, Vesta,” Scott says, smoothing a hand down her back. She yips her agreement as they turn back west, toward the woods.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to LC and Savanna for their beta work on this chapter! All remaining mistakes are mine. <3
> 
> Small warning for a slight hint of disassociation from a circumstance through non-sexual roleplay in this chapter. For more explicit warnings please see end notes.
> 
> Feel free to reblog the art! It can be found on Tumblr here: <http://anomalagous.tumblr.com/post/131397705950/then-the-knock-comes-again-so-he-answers-it>

“Hurry up, inside,” Scott says, forcing Vesta off the doorstep and into the cabin. The snow has already started coming down hard, whipped into their faces by the wind, but Vesta clings to the doormat for as long as she can. It’s like she knows that next time she goes out she’ll be limited to whatever paths Scott shovels for her. He understands her pain - being trapped inside is worse when he knows that the snow will have piled up past his knees next time he goes outside. “C’mon girl, help me unpack the supplies and I’ll give you one of those treats Baker sent.”

Vesta moves a little quicker at that, going to sniff the large bin Scott packed the supplies in to carry them into the house. He skirts around her to peel it open and start putting things in their places: batteries in the cabinet over the sink; coffee and salt in the cupboard; bath salts in a little pine box in the bathroom, one of his first woodworking projects from his first winter here.

Scott’s cabin is a pretty simple affair - log construction, well-built, with a few very thick glass windows and big, sturdy shutters. They’re closed now, in preparation for the blizzard, but he opens them when the sun is out and tries to soak up all the light he can - even after a decade, there’s still a sun worshipper in his heart. The cabin’s only three rooms, but it’s plenty of space for Vesta and him. The living area is wide open, with a simple one-wall kitchen that holds a gas stove and an oven, a refrigerator, a small chest freezer, and a sink. He has a large pantry and several cabinets, and since he does his dishes most every night, it’s really more kitchen than he needs. A little utility closet holds a stacked washer and dryer, and all his cleaning supplies, which mostly comes out to big bottles of bleach and vinegar. There’s a bedroom with a double bed covered in blankets, two down comforters, and pillows aplenty. On the opposite side of the cabin there’s a bathroom with a continuous hot water heater, a stall shower, and Scott’s favorite thing - a giant clawfoot tub.

He keeps most of his woodworking supplies and materials outside in the big, well-insulated barn where he stores the truck, the snowmobile, and his ATV. He can’t ship things out in the middle of winter, but people will still place orders and he works on them until Spring when the roads clear enough for the trucks to pick up. There’s a project in the corner of the living room, a nightstand that he’s building to go along with the rest of a bedroom suite he already has waiting for shipment. When he runs out of materials he has to go back out to the barn, but after years of operating this way, he’s pretty good at figuring out how much he needs to finish a project.

After he’s done putting away the last minute supplies, Scott busies himself with getting dinner prepared. He offers Vesta treats sparingly.

“You don’t get them that often,” he explains as she begs for another. “You’ll make yourself sick. I don’t want you to ruin your supper.”

It sounds vaguely like something his mom would have said when he was small, before she and his dad divorced and suddenly putting nutritious meals on the table was less of a priority than before. It makes him smile to think of her - makes his fingers itch for the phone he keeps in a sidetable drawer. He makes himself honor her in another way, preparing stew with her recipe instead of calling her up to chat.

He misses the sound of her voice, though, so he plays out a conversation in the air as he cooks. Sometimes if he thinks hard enough, he almost feels like he can remember what she sounded like.

“Hey mom,” he says out loud. Vesta isn’t startled - he does this often enough that it barely makes her ears twitch. “It’s onions first, then garlic in the pot, right?”

He waits a beat before saying, “Yeah, I know - garlic scorches too quickly. You’re right. I always second guess myself though! I guess I don’t make this enough. I’m not sure why - it’s definitely one of my favorites.”

He chops the onion into small, irregular pieces, and scrapes it off of the cutting board into the pot, drizzled with some olive oil from the large keg he keeps in the cabinet. “Have to special order it,” he says, as if she asked. “Mr. Baker has it shipped up for me in the summer. Usually two kegs will last me all year, so that’s awesome. The shipping costs are pretty killer, but that’s what I get for living out here in the middle of nowhere, I guess - I think everyone else uses Canola Oil or lard, but it’s just not the same, makes everything taste sort of... wrong.”

For the first two years in the cabin he barely ate, unable to produce anything that tasted even vaguely like the food he grew up with. He’s not sure, now, whether it’s that his cooking tastes better, or if his taste buds have simply adjusted.

“So it’s onion, oil, then garlic - yeah, smashed it, of course - and then we add the stew meat, right? Salt and pepper the meat - I seasoned it this morning before I left. Last time it was a little bland, so I figured I’d try a spicier rub this time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep spices fresh up here? You’d think the cold air would help preserve stuff but I think it does the opposite. My chili powder never tastes like it’s supposed to.”

He pulls the meat out of the refrigerator, and takes the layer of cling wrap off of the plate as he talks, examining how the seasoning has crusted slightly over the stew meat. It’s chunks of venison and beef both, a blend he didn’t think he’d get used to when he first got up here, but now finds much more normal than beef by itself, which is harder to come by. He doesn’t hunt much, but he knows the land well, and Vesta’s a great hunting partner, so when he does he very rarely fails to land a kill. Back in Beacon Hills, he would have found it distasteful at best - more likely, significantly traumatizing - to shoot a deer in the woods and drag his body back on a sled behind the ATV, Vesta running along beside them. Now it’s like second nature. The wolf hunts.

“It doesn’t taste bad,” he tells the air. “I thought it was a little too gamey at first, but now that I’ve gotten used to it I like it a lot. And, you know, it’s always very fresh. Miller’s brother is a butcher. He’s usually only here part of the year, but he does really good work.”

He works quietly, browning the meat on all sides with gentle turns of a wooden spoon he carved and seasoned himself in a fit of boredom. It’s his favorite now. Before long, it’s ready to become stew. He pulls a beer out of the fridge, some of the home brew that Jack Carrington sends him home with by the case even though Scott almost never drinks it - he likes cooking with it, anyway. He takes the meat out of the pot and pours the beer in instead, letting the dark, foamy ale sweep up all the little browned bits on the bottom, before he adds his stock, some carrots, celery, and potatoes, and the meat back in. The lid goes on and the heat goes down, and he says quietly, “Thanks for talking me through it. You know I always forget at least one step on my own. I’m sure it’ll be perfect now.”

There’s no answer except for the quiet sigh of air out of the steam vent on the lid.

 

 

“Alright Vesta,” Scott says with a sigh, glancing past the box of books in the middle of the floor. He isn’t ready to open them yet, to go through the things that Baker said he thought Scott might like. Better to save it for after he’s eaten, or maybe tomorrow. It isn’t like anyone is going to notice the mess. “I guess it’s time to shower. You want to come too or are you staying out here?”

Vesta chomps happily on the rawhide in front of her and ignores him completely, so Scott shrugs her off. He strips out of his shirt, tosses it toward the laundry hamper in the corner, and pads shirtless to the bathroom. The floors are heated, which seemed silly to Scott until the first time he forgot to turn them on and stepped out of the shower. Now he flicks on the switch and gets the water running before he strips out of his jeans and thermals. Steam billows out of the stall shower, fogging up the glass of the large mirror almost immediately. The bathroom faces the north, and despite the solid log construction, the north wind cuts through, leaving it cooler than the rest of the cabin.

As soon as he’s naked, Scott hops into the shower stall, pulling the door closed behind him. The water is scalding hot, just the way he likes it, and he lets it wash over his body with a sigh. He just enjoys it for a while: enjoys the warmth that the water allows to blossom in his core; enjoys the knowledge that unless something catastrophic happens, he isn’t going to run out of hot no matter how long he stays in; enjoys the feeling of water rolling down his chest, hitting his lower back, making him weak-kneed with good feeling. He scrubs shampoo sparingly through his hair, and follows it with a thick, paste-like conditioner. His curls have grown out since his last haircut, hanging to his cheekbones, and the air outside is as dry as it is cold. It zaps all the moisture from him as soon as he goes out, leaves him feeling stretched-thin and uncomfortable. He piles his hair on top of his head in a sort of bun-thing, random tendrils escaping, and secures it there with even more conditioner. It makes him cringe, the amount of junk he ends up using on his hair and skin now, but he suffered through the first few winters without it and would rather never go back to that. Even Mr. Baker keeps a large tub of shea butter on the store counter, and he’s about the roughest, toughest old guy Scott’s ever met.

Scott smooths thick conditioning soap over his skin, starting at the shoulders and working it down over his chest and stomach. He gets all the way down to his feet before sliding back up, hands hesitating at his groin. The soap is slick, and he considers masturbating for a long moment - enough that he strokes his hand gently over his soft cock just to see. Nothing happens, though, not even a twitch. He shrugs and lets the moment pass, more concerned with getting the soap out of his hair than examining closely why his body isn’t interested, why it never really seems interested anymore. He rinses perfunctorily, thinking instead of whether or not all the shutters are latched from the inside, and if three 20lb bags of coffee are enough to last the winter, or if he should have grabbed one more.

The bathmat is warm from the radiant heating, comfortable under his wet feet. His towels are all almost threadbare, but they work for what he needs, and he drags one over his head with a quick hand, roughing up all his curls. He wipes off a section of mirror more out of habit than anything else, and only gives himself a cursory glance, scraping the towel over his scruffy stubble. He considers shaving for half a second, but rolls his eyes at himself instead - there’s no reason to shave, not for Vesta.

She’s already waiting for him when he steps back into the main room of the cabin, walking quickly through to the bedroom so he can pull on some sweats, thick socks, and a thermal shirt. She presses her nose to the back of his thigh while he rolls his socks on, cool and wet, and it makes Scott laugh. He pets her haphazardly as he dresses, but he’s pretty used to it by now, getting dressed as she tries to lap the tap water from his skin.

“C’mon Vesta, gimme a break,” he says fondly, petting between her ears. She nudges him again with her nose, herding him gently back toward the kitchen where the stew bubbles gently on the stove. He stirs it, leaves the lid off as he gathers his eating supplies together - a single bowl, a spoon, a loaf of bread he baked himself a few days before.

“Want some bread?” Scott asks, preparing to cut a slice, but Vesta doesn’t answer. It’s a little odd - she normally gets excited at any mention of treats, especially people food like bread. He looks around, concerned she accidentally shut herself in the bedroom again, but she’s there next to his feet just like before - only, instead of looking at the stove, or at Scott, she’s staring at the door.

“Vesta?” he asks carefully, but her ears are pricked forward and her lips pulled back. Scott’s heart drops into his stomach, and for a hot, bright moment he forgets to breathe. He has to cling to the counter to stay up. Someone’s here. Someone’s coming to the door.

It’s been ten years, but he always knew he couldn’t hide forever.

“Vesta, go -” he starts, but the knock sounds before he can finish his instructions. It wouldn’t have done him any good, besides; it’s not like he believes she would actually leave his side if he was in danger. He wishes she would, though. His heart aches at the idea of risking another friend in battle, of losing her maybe. He hasn’t had to fight anyone in so long that he’s not even sure he’ll be able to, but he’d try - for her he’d try.

The person out in the cold knocks again, and it’s like a hot poker to his side. Scott grabs instinctively for the knife in the sink - the one he used earlier to chunk up the stew meat, despite the fact that his claws are far sharper. It’s been so long since he shifted, he can’t count on it working. He walks to the door with careful steps, but he can’t hear anything definite outside. The wind from the storm is too strong. He thinks very seriously about just leaving them out there, whoever it is, but he knows he can’t - if it’s a werewolf, it won’t matter, they can survive the blizzard even if it’s uncomfortable, and they’d be waiting for him out there the next time he left the cabin. At least right now he’s prepared for them, more or less.

It could be a human, though, someone lost on their way back to town, someone who didn’t know the storm was coming like he did. If it’s a human out there, he can’t risk them freezing to death because of his fear. The old drive to _save everyone_ has never been all that far from the surface.

He hesitates with his hand on the knob, and looks toward Vesta again. Her hackles are still clearly up, but she meets his eyes and seems to nod, and that’s all he really needs. He pulls open the door.

“You’re here,” a voice says, muffled by a thick scarf, but he can’t really parse the words, not when amber eyes stare back at him over it. They fill with tears, and then pain as the tears freeze dry on pale skin underneath. The man - the man on his doorstep the night of the first big storm of the season - pulls his scarf down long enough to say, “Thank fuck, I finally found you - would you just -”

And then he’s inside Scott’s cabin, unwinding his scarf and pushing off his hat, wearing a coat that’s too light for the winter and a smile that’s too sharp at the edges.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles says, voice thick and hands shaking. “Did you miss me?"

(Art from: <http://anomalagous.tumblr.com/post/131397705950/then-the-knock-comes-again-so-he-answers-it>)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Scott wants to call his mother to ease his isolation, but feels that he can't. Instead, he imagines he's calling her, and has a length conversation with her while cooking, out loud. He's obviously very affected by depression and isolation, but with no one to reach out to, he ends up miming human contact instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to LC and Dea for both giving this chapter a look-over and prodding me to make it better. I'm sorry about the wait - grading really got in the way of life the last couple of weeks.

Scott just stands and stares, the door wide open and the wind blowing fiercely through it into the cabin. Only Vesta’s short whine cuts through the haze covering his brain, enough to remind Scott that he needs to close it and keep her safe. He locks the deadbolt on autopilot, but he lingers over it, trying to collect himself enough to speak.

He’s - Stiles is - he’s here, in Scott’s house, Stiles _found_ him and all Scott can think to say is -

“You’ll never survive the winter in that coat.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have a lot of options down in Mexico,” Stiles says, peeling the too-thin coat off and draping it over the back of one of Scott’s kitchen chairs, just like he would have back home, back in -

“Why Mexico? Why aren’t you in Beacon Hills?” Scott can’t help the surge of fear in him, choking him. Deaton told him if he ran, if he left, Beacon Hills would have a modicum of peace. It had been hard, of course, but he’d been willing to do it for them - for his mother, and Lydia, Kira and Malia, Liam and Mason and Derek, and - and, of course, for Stiles.

But if he left for nothing? If they needed him?

“Has something happened back home?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nodding slowly as he pulls off his gloves. They’re thin knit ones from the discount store, and they’re too small for Stiles’ long fingers so they bunch up as he tries to get them off. “Yeah, something happened Scott. It sort of ceased to exist about ten years ago.”

“Ceased to -?” Scott’s heart hammers on the inside of his ribs, bile filling his mouth. What has he done? What has he -

“Can’t have a home without you in it,” Stiles finishes, staring at the floor. “Your mom, Liam, Kira - Beacon Hills, they’re all fine. It’s me that isn’t.”

Scott sinks into a chair, afraid that if he stands much longer his legs will give out. He should be relieved - his loved ones are well, his home is safe, their plan worked. Instead, though, there’s a yawning emptiness in his chest, and tears burning in his eyes. _They’re safe, they’re safe, this was the right choice, it was the right choice -_ Stiles’ hand on his shoulder comes as such a shock that Scott jumps, sending them both flinching backward.

“Sorry, Sorry -” Scott says, voice wet and choked, at the same time Stiles says “I - I didn’t mean to -”

“I’m not used to…” Scott trails off, awkwardness hanging heavily between them. He’s not sure how to finish that sentence: I’m not used to having someone here; I’m not used to being touched by anyone but the old man that runs the general store who hugs me twice a year; I’m not used to people acting like I’m flesh and bone instead of sawdust and snow. He can’t say any of those things. Finally, he just shrugs and says, “Vesta has a tough time sneaking up on me.”

“Vesta?” Stiles asks, face a little screwed up, before she pokes him in the back of the leg with her snout.

“Uh, Stiles, meet Vesta. Vesta, this is Stiles. He’s - um -” Scott swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “He’s my other best friend.”

Vesta sniffs at him interestedly and then, just as quickly as she came into the conversation, tunes back out. She pads over to the counter where the open breadbox sits, fresh loaf hanging halfway out of it, and whines at him - obviously wanting the piece of bread he promised before Stiles came to the door and shattered the bit of normalcy Scott had built for them here.

Well, they all need to eat.

“You - um. Do you like stew? I just made some fresh. It’s a little different than what Mom used to make…” he says, not wanting to mention the game meat.

“I haven’t had anything but fast food and airport fare for weeks,” Stiles says brightly, clinging to the bit of easy conversation and peering over at the stewpot. “It smells delicious.”

“It’s usually pretty good,” Scott concedes. He gets up and hunts down an extra bowl and spoon - spares he keeps even though he generally uses the same dishes over and over again. Vesta gets her hunk of bread, the end piece that he never eats anyway but she will happily devour, and he cuts an extra slice for Stiles to dip in the stew. Scott works automatically, laying the table, pulling cups out of the cabinet and filling them with water filtered from the tap - ice cold because of the temperatures outside. He could almost forget how odd it is to be doing everything twice, except that Stiles is - well, he’s Stiles. He moves. He shifts. He looks around, touching the few personal items Scott keeps laying around, poking at his shelves of books.

“What’s this?” Stiles asks, nudging the box in the middle of the floor with his foot. Scott startles a little, sloshing water out of the cup in his hands, but manages to cover it by pretending he was rinsing it out before refilling it. Stiles doesn’t even notice.

“Books,” he says, shrugging. “A guy in town got them for me. He knows I get bored in the winter.”

“So he sends you boxes of paperbacks?” Stiles asks, one eyebrow raised. “Seems a little old-fashioned… and, you know, inconvenient. How does even know you’ll want to read all these books? Why not just - I dunno, get yourself a Kindle or something?”

Scott stops short, a bowl of piping hot stew in each hand. He looks at Stiles, waiting for the punchline, the explanation, something to excuse that massive leap. Nothing comes except for a more earnestly confused expression on Stiles’ face - one that he is so unfamiliar with that he can’t help but be a little surprised by it.

He laughs - he can’t help it, the ridiculousness of the suggestion building on the awkwardness of having someone - anyone - but especially _Stiles_ in his house, especially tonight. He sets the bowls down on the table before he ends up spilling them all over himself. Even if he’d heal, it would still burn, and he hates burns. He has to cover his face - it feels so strange, laughing out loud, giddy, with someone _watching_. And Stiles is, he’s watching from five feet away, confused look on his face rapidly morphing into something much more indignant.

“I - Scott - what is - why are you -” he sputters, brow screwing up and mouth pursing.

“Stiles,” Scott manages to gasp. His ribs ache, his stomach hurts, and the laughter feels more like the pressure of an asthma attack now - but he can’t stop. “Stiles - what - what am I going to do with a Kindle? I don’t have _the internet_.”

Scott rubs at his eyes, wiping away tears that have gathered as he starts to catch his breath - that is, until he sees Stiles’ horrified face, one he’s seen a thousand times before. It sets him off all over again, deep belly laughs that hurt and feel good at the same time.

“You don’t have the internet?” Stiles’ voice gets a little pitchy in his devastation, and Scott has to sit down or he’s going to fall right there on the floor. “Scott - how do you - do you know what year it is? How do you not have the internet? Like, not even on your phone?”

“I don’t have a phone, Stiles,” Scott says, breathless. “I mean, I do but - check your service right now.”

Stiles pulls a phone - slim, almost all screen, covered with some sort of Batman case - out of his pocket and thumbs it on. He scrolls frantically through some screens before giving up and just powering it down. He looks disgusted and tired all at the same time, another expression Scott is intimately familiar with despite a decade between instances.

“Okay but what do you do if there’s - I don’t know, an emergency or something?”

Scott sobers, not instantly, but like the old tap out in the workshop that draws water from a hundred year old well buried deep in the ground. In the winter it barely runs at all, but in the summer the water comes up smelling cool and rich, like earth, and even after Scott turns off the spigot, the flow of water doesn’t stop all at once - it tapers off, like the pipes are reluctant to give up the sensation of water running through them, and it leaks for half an hour more.

“I have a satellite phone,” he says. “If there’s a fire at the cabin, I can use it to call Gary Anderson in town - he’s got a prop plane, and that’s the extent of our volunteer fire department. The guys would come up from town to help. I live inside the tree line, so a fire here could be devastating, and a lot of conservationists live in this area.”

Stiles waits, like he expects Scott to give him something else, so Scott continues a little awkwardly, “It’s in the kitchen, because that’s where a fire is most likely to start. The service is too expensive to really use for more than that.”

“Okay…” Stiles says, nodding. “That makes sense, I guess. You are out here in like, the middle of actually fucking nowhere, I’m surprised you even have electricity.” Stiles sits as he talks, dipping his piece of bread into his stew just like Scott knew he would.

“The service isn’t consistent,” Scott admits. “But I have generators in the basement, and out in the shed. They pick up the slack when the electricity coming from town slacks off, and a lot of my stuff runs off of gas. I get a delivery twice a year to the tank out back.”

“Still, it’s dangerous to be without a phone all the time, isn’t it? The road seemed pretty treacherous on the way out here -”

“Wait, how did you even get here?” Scott interrupts. “You couldn’t have walked. Did you drive something? Do I need to put your vehicle away?” Scott knows he looks pained - he doesn’t want to go back out into the snow, not when he can hear the wind howling through the logs.

“No, nah, I hitched a ride into town with one of these like, hardcore grizzly ice truckers - he kept a giant case of Hostess cupcakes in the back, it was awesome - and then this guy -” Stiles shoves a bite of stew-soaked bread into his mouth, pauses to chew, pauses some more to make a shocked-but-approving face at Scott, and then continues, “This guy from town gave me a ride out here. Said if I waited until tomorrow the road would be covered up. On the trip out I thought maybe the dude was taking me into the woods to kill me, but he didn’t so that was cool. His name was…. Ezra, I think? He said to tell you Hi. He also called you a hermit.”

“Miller,” Scott sighs, nodding. “Ezra Miller is probably the only guy in town who’d risk driving in this storm just to make sure you got here before things calm down enough to use the snowmobiles.”

“He seemed to like you,” Stiles says, and Scott recognizes that tone of voice - the moment of possessiveness oddly comforting despite how out of place it feels now. He isn’t Stiles’ anymore - not his brother or his best friend or his Alpha, not really anyone to him now. You don’t get to be a person’s someone when you’ve hidden from them for ten years. Still, Stiles doesn’t seem to have realized that, and his little twinge of jealousy is obvious in the thawing awkwardness.

“Miller likes making fun of me, and he likes it when I give him someone other than his boyfriend, or very occasionally his brother, to talk to. There aren’t many people our age around here.”

Stiles nods, seemingly pacified by this, and Scott can’t help but smile into his bowl over it. His stew is rich and hearty, with chunks of meat and veggies that make him feel warm and tired at the same time. He still needs to stack the fire for the night in both the fireplaces, and find some place for Stiles to sleep, but he can already feel himself starting to wind down.

“This is pretty good, Scotty,” Stiles says, dragging his crust through the remains at the bottom of his bowl, most of it already gone. The nickname - a little endearment left over from childhood, makes Scott’s chest compress in strange ways, and when he looks up, Stiles is smiling at him just a bit, gesturing to the cabin with an odd bop of his head. “I’m not sure why you’re here, or why you live thirty miles from the nearest town, or why a guy who you won’t even call your friend delivered me all the way to your doorstep tonight, but it’s - it’s good to see you.” His voice goes a little wet at the end, and Scott has to blink back some tears too, covering it by clearing his throat and pushing his bowl aside with a small clatter.

“Yeah, Stiles,” Scott says, soft and sincere. “Yeah, it’s good to see you too.”

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple warnings for this chapter, all of which can be found in the end notes. Up front the big ones are probably: canon-compliant horror, imagined major character death, imagined threats of sexual assault, and the threat of a dog attack. Please see end notes for more explicit warnings and take care of yourselves. 
> 
> Thanks to LC for looking this over for me.

The trees whip past, bare branches smacking into him and leaving cuts like stripes all over his arms, neck, and face. Each swipe stings, but not nearly as much as the cold wind whistling by him, or the promise of claws behind. He runs on, faster, harder, breathless. His chest aches. He can’t see further than two feet in front of him, falling snow and roiling fog obscuring everything but the outline of dark tree trunks. He says a little prayer of thanks that at least it isn’t nighttime, but the sunlight is so weak it barely lights his path, leaving him jumping over limbs at the last minute. Every one is a reminder that he could trip and fall at any minute, leave himself prey to the beasts behind him.

He pushes himself harder, trying to put space between them. Tears stream from his eyes, freezing on his cheeks. Behind him, a wolf howls, and then another, and another, until the forest is full of the sounds of their voices. They’re coming for him, he knows. He has to find Vesta before they catch him, before they sniff her out - he doesn’t want her to try to defend him, if it comes down to it. The house can’t be far away, just around the next corner, through the next copse of trees and he should see the light in the windows.

Abruptly, the forest fades away and he’s left running through a field of tall grass, much higher than his head. He looks around, confused, but he doesn’t stop - the feeling that he’s being chased doesn’t fade with the sudden change of surroundings. Instead, it grows stronger. He runs as fast as he can, but there’s no easy pathway through the grass, and he stumbles and falls. The grass is sharp, cuts at his hands, leaves him bloody and stinging as he claws his way up from the earth over and over. There’s hot breath on the back of his neck. He knows if he stops - if he falls again, they’ll catch him, they’ll have him -

He scrabbles to a stop, a rocky cliffside in front of him, and miles of jungle behind him. He looks but he can’t see his pursuers; instead, the only person here is Allison, standing on the cliff’s edge, hands out like she’s going to dive in. He peeks over the side, but the cliff overlooks more jungle, not water - if she jumps in she’ll die.

“Please don’t -” he tries to stay, but the words that come out are, “Go Allison! You can do it!”

She glances his direction, shoots him a grin like she did that one time at the swim meet he attended to cheer her on. Her body is draped in something heavy and black, nothing like her sleek red swimsuit or the bikini she wore that time they went to the city pool and she showed him how to dive off the side. He tries to catch her eye, to keep her attention focused on him, but she looks back out into the distance, preparing for her dive.

_No, no, no_ , “Go! Go! Go!”

A whistle sounds somewhere in the jungle, and she jumps, perfect form as her body glides out over the side of the cliff, and then plummets to the trees below. She doesn’t scream - just lands with a sickening _crack_. Scott screams, tears pouring down his face. He tries to wipe his eyes, but claws have tipped out of his fingers, and no matter how he tries to turn his hands he can’t keep from scratching at his face. He heals almost instantly, but the salt from the tears burns the scratches, and they come faster, harder, with every new sting.

“Allison - Allison go -” he sobs, but then he’s waist-deep in dark water, cold and black and oozing around his bare feet, and he has to keep moving, has to push forward. If he stops whatever’s underneath will pull him down, keep him there until he becomes like it, and he can’t let that happen. He struggles forward, slipping on the bottom of the riverbed, walking against the current. He can hear something coming from around the bend - a rush of water pounding its way toward him. He has to hurry, get to the other side before it gets to him, get to the other side of the river where  someone’s waiting for him, someone’s got their hands out to him. He’s so close. It’s only another few feet, and he reaches out, hands completely human, looking for someone to pull him to shore.

The hands that grip his aren’t even a little human. Claws scrape at his skin, hold him in place as someone with red eyes and a hulking form drags him away from the water.

“Come on out, Scotty,” Peter Hale says, voice full of menace. “I always knew you’d come back to me someday. The pretty ones always do. Let’s play a game, Scott. I like to call it, ‘Who’s the Alpha?’ I’ll give you two guesses, but you’re only going to have to use one.”

Scott listens in horror, tries to pull away, but Peter has his hands caught, claws digging into the flesh and spearing through the bones. It hurts, aches so badly he can’t keep himself from screaming as he tries to walk back anyway - back toward the thing in the river. His foot slips, and he falls, face just inches above the water, and something catches him around the ankle, tugging insistently against Peter’s hold. The monster he doesn’t know, or the horror that he does? It feels like they’re tearing him apart between them, like his limbs are stretched as far as they’ll go and then just a bit further. The roaring sound grows louder, more insistent, and Scott turns to look as the wave comes crashing around the corner of the mountain, flooding toward him at breakneck speed. He opens his mouth, calling for help, for death, for _something_ -

“ _Scott!_ Scott please - Scotty please wake up -”

Scott jerks awake, panting, dripping with sweat. He shivers, the room around him so much colder than it should be - the fire in his hearth has burned too low in the night, and his breath fogs in front of him as he sits up, still shaking.

“Scott -” a voice comes from his doorway, and he looks up, terrified for a moment that the dream was real - that Peter’s found him here and is planning to -

“Scott, your - your dog -” the voice says again, and Scott flips on his bedside lamp to see Stiles - _oh thank god, it’s Stiles, it’s just Stiles_ \- with his hands raised, standing in the doorway. In front of him, Vesta is low to the ground, teeth bared in a snarl, ears laid back. Scott has to blink several times before he realizes what’s going on: Vesta has Stiles cornered, more or less, thinking he’s a threat.

“Vesta, down,” Scott orders. “Here. Come here.” His voice is hoarse, from either the cold or screaming or both, but it’s strong enough to get her attention. She settles immediately, turning toward him with pricked-up ears and a wag of her tail. Stiles relaxes almost as instantly, eyes still glued to her as Vesta jumps up on the bed where Scott’s hand scratches at the comforter. Scott rubs between her ears, down her back, soothing all the little places that her fur had stuck up and soothing himself at the same time.

“Um, sorry,” he says belatedly, realizing Stiles is still hovering in the doorway. “She’s protective.”

“Probably a good thing,” Stiles shrugs, but the scent of worry isn’t hard to catch. Actually, not catching it would probably be much more difficult, since Scott isn’t practiced at ignoring the signals anymore.

“I had a nightmare,” Scott explains, uncertain. Stiles could leave now, go back to the living room and get back to sleep without worrying about Vesta attacking him, but he hasn’t budged from his spot. He hasn’t gone back to bed, but he hasn’t come any closer either, and Scott feels like they’re both sort of stuck there; him in his piles of fear-sweat-stinking sheets and Stiles with his feet growing roots into the door jamb.

“I could tell,” Stiles nods, arms crossing over his chest. He looks like he’s braced for a strong wind. “Wanna tell me what it was about?”

“A lot of things,” Scott shrugs. It isn’t a lie - even if there was one overwhelming theme, there were a lot of different parts to the dream. Stiles could probably put it together if he tried hard enough - or, he could have ten years ago. Maybe Stiles doesn’t put things together anymore.

“Have ‘em a lot?” Stiles asks, voice a little rough.

Scott hesitates before shaking his head no. “Not anymore. I - I did before. Vesta wasn’t with me then.”

“She seems like she takes pretty good care of you.” Stiles softens. He walks over to Scott’s fireplace, coming fully into his room for the first time, and grabs the poker from the little toolset on the hearth. The fire perks up brilliantly with a few well-placed pokes and the addition of some small pieces of wood, flickering bright over the walls in a way that makes Scott feel warm and cozy, rather than like something else could be lurking in the shadows.

“You did that pretty well,” he says awkwardly, nodding toward the hearth. He doesn’t ask, _How does a guy who could barely turn an oven on in ninth grade for fear of being burned know how to revive a wood fire?_ It is heavily implied, though.

“You aren’t the only one with some secrets,” Stiles says, shrugging off the compliment. “You need some water or something?”

Scott thinks on it for a second, but the warmth breathing back into the room plus Vesta’s body solid and anchoring on top of his is already making it tough for him to keep his eyes open. “Nah - no thanks. I’m just going to go back to sleep, I think.”

“Alright,” Stiles nods. He heads back toward the door, but doesn’t close it behind him. “Good night Scott.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Scott says tiredly, settling back down against his pillows.

He almost misses Stiles saying, “I’ll be here.” Almost, but not quite.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include: nightmare imagery, including being stalked through the woods; Scott dreams of Allison dying by diving off the side of a cliff; in Scott's nightmare, Peter Hale implies he's going to rape Scott, as well as talks to him like a child; Scott believes before the end of the dream that he is going to be pulled in half, or drown. None of this actually happens. Scott is having a nightmare.
> 
> In actuality, Vesta - while trying to protect Scott, who is dreaming - bares her teeth and threatens Stiles, who is trying to get into the room to comfort him. Scott wakes up before the situation escalates further.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult for me because of the turning point in tone. That means good things for you all though! Less angst! More, uh, being trapped in a cabin for the foreseeable future! 
> 
> The art in this chapter was created by my beautiful friend [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com) who also beta'd this chapter. The art can be reblogged on tumblr [here.](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com/post/131536826826/art-by-the-lovely-anomalagous-verse-from-the)

Scott wakes slowly. His eyes feel like cotton balls, and his skin is sticky from sweating in the night. Vesta makes a too-warm bed partner, obviously. He rubs at his face and puts his feet on the floor only to jerk them back up, hissing. It’s so cold. The bedroom was an addition, and it isn’t quite as well insulated as the rest of the cabin. Most of the time it’s fine, but on the coldest days it’s too much for his bare feet. He pulls a pair of socks from the drawer of his nightstand and slides them up, up, over his calves, past his knees.

He only has a few pair like this - a silly indulgence purchased a few years ago, through a catalog. Honestly, he’s not sure how’s he kept them this long without tearing them on his boot-rough feet or a splinter somewhere on the floor. They’re ridiculous, too tall and a bit baggy around his calves, but they hug tightly to his thighs, crocheted lace hiding the elastic band that keeps them in place. The green knit contrasts nicely with the red of his sleepshirt, and he smiles when he thinks about how quaintly Christmassy it all is - snowed into a cabin wearing red and green - ignoring the fact that he hasn’t actually celebrated Christmas since he left.

He’s self-aware enough to know he doesn’t wear them just because they’re warm. The socks make him feel - _something_. Something good.

(Art from: <http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com/post/131536826826/art-by-the-lovely-anomalagous-verse-from-the>)

He stumbles haphazardly from his bedroom to the kitchen, searching for the tea kettle with sleep-bleary eyes. Waking up was harder this morning than usual, and he needs his caffeine to feel like a person again. Caffeine, and a shower. Once he’s properly warmed up, he thinks, he’ll spend the day unpacking the box of books Mr. Baker gave him, finding places for all of them on his shelves - or maybe he’ll just lay around reading and wearing his fun socks and completely ignoring the fact that the world exists outside the cabin. Hell, he could stay in bed all day, for that matter. It’s not as if Vesta would care, and there’s no one else around to see him -

Oh.

_Oh no_.

“Scott?” Stiles’ voice is hesitant, and wide awake. “Uh, buddy? You, um. Forgot your pants.”

Scott turns around slowly, face already heating up. Stiles looks rumpled, dark circles under his eyes unhelped by a night of sleeping on Scott’s sofa, but at least he’s fully dressed - sweatpants hanging low on his waist, and an oversized long-sleeved t-shirt covering everything but his fingertips.

“Um. Good morning?”

“Good morning.” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck, obviously embarrassed but doing his best to hide it. “Forget I was here?”

“Sort of.” Unfortunately he can’t stop the rush of memories now, all of them, from Stiles’ strange arrival the night before to falling asleep with Vesta curled protectively on top of him, Peter Hale’s voice still ringing in the back of his mind. Remembering the nightmare makes him queasy. “Sorry, it’s just…”

He’s really not sure what to say.

“It’s alright,” Stiles says, and even though he’s smiling, he smells hurt. He doesn’t give Scott time to react though, plows on ahead. “So, what’s for breakfast? Eggs? Waffles? More stew?”

“Um, oatmeal?” Scott says, right before being forcibly reminded of Stiles’ hatred of it. Stiles grimaces. “I have some… cinnamon? We could put in it? And sugar, of course. There might even be some honey in the pantry…”

“Cool,” Stiles says, making his way toward the kettle. “Don’t worry, I’ll manage. I’ve eaten worse. So, what, do we just fill this puppy up, or…?”

“I filled it last night,” Scott says, turning on the burner underneath it. He gets out the canister of oatmeal, spoons, and two bowls before he realizes he still doesn’t have any pants on - mostly because he catches Stiles averting his eyes. “Ah, sorry, I’ll just… be right back. When it whistles, use the towel to move it off the burner.”

Stiles nods in acknowledgement, pink to the tips of his ears. Scott almost reiterates the bit about the towel - the handle of the kettle gets very hot, and he’s burned himself on it more than once - but when he comes back with sweatpants and normal slippers on, Stiles has the hand towel doubled up to protect his skin, and is pouring water over bowls of dried oats.

“Oh, thanks,” Scott says, getting the powdered milk out as well as a tea bag. He holds the scoop of white powder out to Stiles. “Milk?”

“Yeah, please, where? In the fridge?” Stiles looks around, right past the scoop. Scott wiggles it some, fine powder spilling on the floor. He’ll need to sweep.

“Here. It’s powdered. We can’t keep fresh.” He dumps a little into his oats and his cup of tea, turning the hot water creamier. “You want some?”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles. “Uh. Pass. It’s cool man. I’m just going to grab whatever you have in there that can make this taste… not like oatmeal.”

There’s only a single cabinet door to the pantry, but it seems like Stiles closes it four times if he opens it once, and from the noises coming from the counter, he’s found things in there Scott didn’t know existed - which is fascinating since yesterday Scott could have named every item in the whole cabin without thinking twice. It takes a few minutes for Stiles to join him at the table, and when he does, his bowl is so doctored up, Scott can barely tell it started out as oatmeal.

“So…” he says awkwardly before spooning his own oatmeal into his mouth. He eats the same thing for breakfast everyday and has since he moved into the cabin four years ago. Today’s the first day it’s tasted bland. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, shoveling big gloppy bites of honey-cinnamon goop into his mouth and swallowing before he can even taste it.

“Sleep better?” Stiles asks, mouth sticky. He takes a sip of hot, french press coffee and grimaces at the lack of sweetened cream.

“After…?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods. “Yeah. No more nightmares. Guess Vesta ran them all off.” He laughs a little, stirring his own spoon through the oats. He has to make himself take a second bite, and a third. He can’t choke down a fourth.

“I get that. I used to get nightmares on the road a lot. Braeden hid my gun - said if I slept with it anywhere near me, I was going to shoot somebody. Like, you know, her.”

“On the road?” Scott perks up, trying to ignore the part about the gun. He likes them even less now than he did ten years ago, and the idea of Stiles handling one with any regularity sends a cold chill down his spine. The fact that he hasn’t somehow shot himself on accident already is a miracle. “With Braeden?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, scraping the last of his oats from the bowl into his mouth. He swallows and takes a long drink of coffee, leaving Scott on the edge of his seat. He suddenly aches to hear - to know what Stiles was doing, how Braeden and the pack are, any news from home, but Stiles takes his time, slower to speak than Scott ever remembers him being. He’s patient though, and he waits, waits until Stiles has set his cup down and stretched and pushed his bowl away before he asks again.

“What were you doing on the road with Braeden? Are you some sort of… detective now?”

“Sure, if looking for your lost alpha counts as detective work,” Stiles laughs shortly. Scott’s face screws up, but Stiles just shrugs, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything that he didn’t just look - he _found_ Scott, even if it took a long time. “We looked for you. All of us at first, the whole pack, for about six months. We didn’t have any leads, though - nobody knew where you’d gone, or why. Deaton took off, too, right after you did - one day the clinic was running just like normal, and the next there were boards over the windows and a note that he was going to visit his sister. We all knew it was connected somehow, that he probably knew where you were, or how to find you, but if you think you’re untraceable here, Deaton’s got to be at the damn North Pole. We didn’t even know where to start.”

Scott sinks back in his chair, reeling. Deaton calls him a few times a year, just to check in and make sure he has enough money and supplies to survive. He’s thought about asking for his mom a couple of times, or Stiles, or even Derek, just to hear the voice of a friend again, of someone besides Deaton who cared for him. It never occurred to him that all this time, Deaton wasn’t in Beacon Hills either - that even if he’d asked, Deaton couldn’t help him.

Stiles doesn’t notice Scott’s surprise. “So we all looked for about six months, but by then we’d all missed our first semester of college, and we weren’t any closer to finding you. Braeden looked on her own for a while, or with Derek and Parrish. Lydia created some sort of search algorithm that was designed to find mentions of you on the web -”

“But I don’t have the internet,” Scott says softly.

“Right. And nobody who knows you seems to have it either - or at the very least, nobody mentions the name ‘Scott McCall’ or ‘Scott Delgado’ or ‘True Alpha’ or any other combination of words Lydia could think of. We checked up on it constantly, but the leads it generated ran out pretty fast. My dad wouldn’t let me leave to look for you again until I’d finished college, so I took classes between terms, and in the summer. Finished in three years.”

“Wow,” Scott says softly. His thoughts begin to head toward the dreams he never got to have, but he steers them away immediately. Now isn’t the time for that. It’s never really the time for that. “So you finished school, and then… started traveling with Braeden?”

“Turns out being a human team has advantages when dealing with the supernatural,” Stiles says, scraping his spoon over the bottom of the empty bowl. The sound sets Scott’s teeth on edge. “We found out a lot of stuff that no one would have told us with the rest of the pack around. Not stuff about you, obviously - but we were always looking.”

“Did you have a board?” Scott blurts out, a little happier about it than he should be. He can picture it - Stiles collecting scraps of evidence, clues - doodling pictures of him and pinning them together with red yarn in between. Stiles gives him a sort of blank look before it dawns on him, what Scott’s talking about.

“A board? Ha, uh, no.” Scott tries not to let his disappointment show, but he’s obviously out of practice at that, because Stiles immediately says, “No, I use a tablet now. Helps me keep all my stuff together, and it’s a lot more mobile than a corkboard. There’s definitely a Scott section on that, though.”

Stiles’ cheeks flush a little, bright pink spots high in the hollows of them, and it instantly makes him look - well, ten years younger. All Scott can think of is how Stiles used to blush ferociously when Lydia looked his direction, or later, when Malia kissed him in front of everyone. It simultaneously makes him smile and ache, deep in his stomach, like he’s been punched and he wasn’t expecting it.

“C’mon, let’s rinse these out,” Stiles changes the subject abruptly. “Oatmeal sticks when it gets cold.” He takes Scott’s bowl and dumps its contents in the compost bin without a second thought before washing them both in the sink. He doesn’t mention that his own bowl was empty, but Scott’s was barely touched. Instead, when he turns the water off, he asks, “So, what’s on the docket today?”

Scott only has to think for a moment. “Today we’re going to organize some books.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LC beta'd part of this for me but I am impatient and decided to post it before getting the rest of it checked out. If you see an error feel free to let me know. I hope you all like this chapter. I needed some light today. <3

“When you said ‘organize some books,’ I thought you meant the ones in the box,” Stiles complains, surrounded by stacks of paperbacks. “Not the ones already on the shelves.”

Scott looks up from the stack he’s going through to give Stiles his sunniest smile before jotting down another title. He likes keeping track of what’s on his shelves, and the third time he came home with a duplicate title from the little secondhand bookstore in town, he started making a catalog. It’s taken all day, but his list is mostly complete, and he’s happy to see there was only one repeat in the box Mr. Baker sent.

“I do this every year,” he says, pushing aside a stack of titles that roughly equate to overhyped testosterone fantasies - not his favorite, but good enough for a spot on the far shelf. “It’s my ‘First Big Storm of the Season’ tradition. Gets me off on the right foot.”

“To do what?” Stiles asks, a little sour. “Spend all winter reading - what is this - _The Enchantress and the Huntsman_?” He squints at the cover for a second, obviously about to make fun of it more than his tone already has, but Scott grabs it away from him.

“Quit it,” Scott says, a little wounded. He strokes the battered spine of the paperback with one finger, feeling all the places he’s bent it back, wrapped it around itself - _loved_ it. He’s a little defensive as he says, “This one’s my favorite.”

“Oh,” Stiles blinks for a moment, and then snags it back, reading the back cover. “Your favorite, huh? Why - do they bang? Some explicit erotica to keep you warm during the long winter, Scotty boy? I’ve heard romance novels are basically like porn for chicks.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but his hurt feelings fade to the background in the face of Stiles’ utter ridiculousness - no doubt his intention. “Yes, they _bang_ , and yes it’s hot. Now put it in the pile with the others, over there.”

“Seriously though, is this what you do most of the winter?” Stiles asks, placing the book with abnormal care on the pile. “Read?”

“Well, read, and work on my furniture projects,” Scott shrugs. “I play with Vesta. And the cabin requires a lot of upkeep. Um, there’s a sort of fun, weird radio station that plays old timey radio shows that I listen to sometimes. And I exercise, of course - it’s tough to live out here if you’re not in good condition.”

Altogether it sounds pretty lame. He eats, he works out, he whittles and listens to weird old suspense stories on the radio, he reads romance novels and action novels and novels about lawyers and novels about castles - pretty much everything but modern fantasy. He doesn’t want to run into any werewolves, fictional or in the fur.

“How do you not die of boredom?”

“Believe it or not, boredom is not generally life-threatening unless _you’re_ involved,” Scott says, deadpan. He can’t even remember the last time he was actively bored. “Living in the cabin is a lot of work. During blizzards it’s one thing, but I don’t actually stay inside all winter. I don’t have enough supplies to just hunker down for five months. I have to gather firewood, do maintenance around the cabin, take care of my tools, hunt -”

“Hunt? Like. With a gun?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“Ah, no, I have a crossbow in the shed,” Scott says, looking down when Stiles winces. “It seems more fair, I guess. And, you know…”

“Reminds you of her,” Stiles nods. “You any good at shooting?”

“I’m not bad.” In truth he’s a lot better than “not bad” - superhuman vision, strength, and reflexes make mastering any sport much simpler, and hunting is about as sporting as it comes up here. Still, it’s instinct to play down his strengths, to be underestimated. It’s saved him time and again, and he knows Stiles isn’t a threat but occasionally he forgets.

“Did you teach yourself?” Stiles isn’t even pretending to look through books anymore, but Scott really isn’t either. He’s grateful for the old, soft rug on the cabin floor that keeps everything warmer, cozier. He stretches out, watching as Stiles mirrors him until they’re both leaning back on their elbows, feet warming near the fire.

“Not exactly,” he says. “I only got the cabin about four years ago.” Stiles’ eyebrows go up, like he’s surprised. Well, Stiles shared - he might as well do the same. At least a little bit. “For the first couple of years I was on the road. I moved with migrant workers, doing farm labor and traveling in southern California. I was in Mexico for a while -”

“So we weren’t wrong,” Stiles interrupts, before shaking his head. “Just late. Really, really late.”

“Really late,” Scott agrees. “I only did that for the first two years - as I got older, and more off the grid, it got harder to convince the Border Patrol I was American. I didn’t want to be stuck in Mexico permanently, so Deaton made some calls and got me a job as a logger in Alaska. That’s where I learned to shoot the crossbow.”

“Mexico to Alaska… must have been rough,” Stiles says, one finger twirling in the deep pile of the rug.

“It wasn’t easy. I was pretty happy not to be farming anymore - berry picking is harder than it looks. But I didn’t really like cutting down trees, either.” Scott doesn’t talk about the other things that were difficult about Alaska: being part of a team, getting to know the rest of the guys in his unit, hunting and camping with them like pack. His thoughts flit to Nick, to his face illuminated by firelight in their tent as he laughed at a joke or told Scott some goofy story about growing up in a logging community. He has to drag them away, both because he doesn’t want to think about it and because Stiles is starting to look at him funny.

“I have an idea for something we could do,” he says, getting to his feet carefully, so as not to knock over any books. Stiles follows immediately, apparently happy to change the subject despite, no doubt, having more questions. “I have some stuff in here, I think -” He trails off as he digs in his pantry, moving the essentials out of the way until he finds what he’s looking for near the back: a package of marshmallows, milk chocolate, and graham crackers that Mrs. Baker sent as a little treat last time he went into town for a big supply run. He’s been saving them for a special occasion, and he’s not sure it gets more special than _My childhood best friend randomly showed up on my doorstep_. “You like s’mores?”

“Fucking love s’mores, gimme that,” Stiles says, and grabs the supplies so abruptly it makes Scott laugh. Scott grabs the chocolate back and stuffs it under his shirt, pretending he’s going to keep it.

“Don’t think that’s going to stop me, McCall -” Stiles says, and before Scott can react Stiles’ palm is warm on the skin over his ribs, long fingers spanning Scott’s side. It’s like coming inside to the fire after he’s been out in the snow: almost painful, almost good, completely overwhelming. Scott drops the chocolate, but Stiles hesitates before reaching down to get it, hand burning everywhere their skin touches.

“Come on,” Stiles says, chocolate held out in the hand that Scott can still feel on his skin. His voice is a little gruff, and Scott wonders if it’s contagious -  this heat-fever that seems to come over him when they get too close. “Find me a coat hanger or something, I have _needs_ , Scott.”

He can’t argue with that, so Scott goes to fetch the coat hangers, leaving the chocolate to melt in Stiles’ palm instead.

 

 

 

“This was such a good idea,” Stiles says, smacking his mouth around a crusty, semi-burned marshmallow. “I am a genius.”

“Um, I’m not positive but I’m pretty sure making s’mores was _my_ idea.”

“I know,” Stiles says, flicking marshmallow fluff in Scott’s direction. He’s too warm and lazy feeling to do anything but open his mouth and hope it lands there - which is a disappointment when it lands on the floor. Stiles’ second try hits home, though, and the burst of caramelized sugar on his tongue is better than anything he’s tasted in years. “Those were two separate thoughts. This was a good idea - _pause_ \- I am a genius. For finding you.”

“Didn’t you say Braeden’s the one that figured out the furniture thing?” Scott asks, busy breaking off a chunk of chocolate bar.

“Did you suddenly become a fact checker?” Stiles shoots back, but his eyes are warm, dancing with firelight when he thumps more marshmallow Scott’s direction.

“Well, a guy needs hobbies,” Scott shrugs. His body feels loose, skin flushed with heat and happiness. He ditches his slippers, warming his toes on the hearth near the fireplace. Outside, the wind howls like wolves, but it doesn’t send a chill down his spine like normal.

“Uh - Scott? I think we have a problem,” Stiles says, but he’s laughing. Scott looks over just in time to see Vesta tug a marshmallow off of Stiles’ coat hanger and swallow it down. His jaw drops, and she looks absurdly pleased with herself.

“Is that the only one she’s had?” Scott asks, trying not to laugh. She knows better than to steal food, but apparently since Stiles is here, all bets are off. The rules have changed without him even noticing, for both of them.

Stiles holds up the marshmallow bag, a large hole torn in one side that was obviously made by large canines. “I don’t think so man.”

“Vesta!” Scott scolds, and immediately she comes over to him, throwing her body over his on the floor and settling down, as if he’ll forget he’s angry while snuggling her. Scott works his hands into her fur, rolling his eyes. “You big baby. If you eat too many of those you’ll get sick.”

“She’s got your number, huh?” Stiles asks, feeding her a sliver of graham cracker. Scott smacks his hand back, scowling at him.

“Apparently mine isn’t the only one she’s got,” he grouses, stroking between her ears. Her hair’s so soft, and her body’s so warm and familiar, it’s hard to stay stern with her.

“Yeah, well, I know how this works,” Stiles says, eating one of the remaining marshmallows and abruptly realizing it has Vesta slobber on it. He grimaces, but doesn’t spit it out, which makes Scott giggle. That makes Stiles grimace harder, and they go back and forth for a minute - Stiles looking grossed out, Scott laughing, Stiles looking more grossed out. He laughs until his stomach aches, until it’s hard to breathe with Vesta on top of him. She finally gets up and walks away, huffing her displeasure, which only makes him laugh harder. Stiles smiles like he won the lottery.

“Wait, you know how what works?” he finally asks when he’s done laughing at them both.

“Oh, you know - proving my worth. I remember very well the responsibility of being Scott McCall’s best friend. Convincing you is easy - I’ve just got to win her over, and then I’ll be welcomed into the pack with open arms.”

Scott’s heartbeat picks up, thumping fast and hard in his chest, and he wants - he doesn’t know, exactly, but something. He wants _something_.

“I guess you better be really nice to her then. She's pretty stubborn,” he says, and bites his lip to keep from saying something else.

“Don’t worry, Scotty,” Stiles says, words drawn out and lazy like syrup in the summer sun. “I’m persistent. Nobody can hold out forever.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additionally, I wanted to note: I usually respond to every comment I get on any fic. I haven't on this one, in part because I don't want to artificially inflate my comment count, and in part because I end up wanting to give away all the secrets when I respond. But please rest assured, your comments on this fic have been the driving force behind my writing of it. I would definitely not have pushed through to get a chapter out during the lead up to finals if not for all of you, and every one of the comments you've left - from the longest, most exuberant squeeing to the littlest "Extra kudos!", they all thrill me. Thank you so much for all your love thus far, and I hope to keep giving you something to love.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for mentions of past suicidal ideation, current accidental injury, and blood. Enjoy some true hurt/comfort in this one y'all. <3

By noon on Stiles’ second day in the cabin, Scott realizes this is going to be a huge problem. The storm is still raging outside, but Storm Stiles hasn’t taken any notice of it. He’s bouncing off the walls, sometimes literally. Scott’s had to put books back on the shelf twice already, and they haven’t even had lunch yet. It’s - it’s strange, nostalgic almost, to watch Stiles beat his head gently against the wall. It reminds Scott of sweeter days.

“How do you stand this?” Stiles asks.

“Practice,” he says, trying not to smile. “The first couple of winters I almost went nuts. It’s not so bad anymore.”

“You’re kidding me,” Stiles groans. He flops down on the couch and then shouts when his head knocks into the solid wooden armrest. “Who - who does this? Who buys a couch made of wood?” he sputters.

“Thankfully several people,” Scott shrugs, going back to shaving the edges of the lumber in his hand with his knife. He should be working on an order, but instead he’s making a new sled to pull behind his snowmobile, one with a wider bed that can hold more things. He doesn’t actively think about why he might need more things, especially since there’s no way Stiles will want to be here all winter. It’s just easier to let his mind wander with his hands busy. “There’s ice outside.”

“What - you have, like, a freezer out there?” Stiles rubs the sore spot, wincing. Scott can’t help but laugh. It’s odd to hear himself that way, to hear his own laughter so often when it was so hard to find before Stiles found him.

“Sure do,” he says. “Big one. Holds - a lot. A couple of elk at least, and bear too. Once I got a moose in there.”

“You’re -” Stiles stops, whips around and glares at him. “You mean the ground. You’re telling me to put snow on my head.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the moose,” Scott laughs.

“When can we go outside again?” Stiles asks, tossing a ball that Scott doesn’t recognize to Vesta, and grumbling when she refuses to return it. At the word “outside,” Vesta’s ears prick up, but Scott shakes his head.

“It’s still storming pretty bad. We need to wait until the snow’s not coming down so fast, or we could get buried out there pretty quick.”

Stiles squints at him, and Scott recognizes that face - the disbelieving face.

“‘Buried’?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “You have to be joking. It’s a snowstorm, not an earthquake. What, am I going to drown in flurries?”

It takes everything in him not to crack a smile as he shrugs and nods toward the door. “See for yourself.”

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Stiles throws himself toward the door in an ambling gait that only Stiles would use. He pulls it open, and a gust of cold air blows into the room, making Vesta leave her spot in the kitchen floor to settle on the hearth instead.  The snow piled two feet deep against the door is packed solid, barely budging as Stiles gapes out into the whirling white.

“Do you see this?” he asks, aghast.

“I told you,” Scott says, not without some satisfaction.

“It’s - how do you - how am I - Scott it’s -”

“Welcome to the Northwest Territories,” Scott interrupts, laughing. “Sometimes it snows. Sometimes it storms. Sometimes it does both, and doesn’t stop.”

Stiles shuts the door, shoulders slumped, and trudges back over to the hearth. He flops down next to Vesta, carding his fingers through her fur.

“How long is it going to be this way?” Stiles asks, a familiar whine in his voice.

Scott shrugs. He doesn’t really know - he can usually tell by now when a big storm is coming, but he can’t really tell how long it will last. “Another day or two probably before the storm actually stops. But it’ll be more or less ‘this way’ until April - lots of snow and ice, cold and dark. Once the blizzard stops we’ll go out and check the perimeter and shovel the paths so we can get to the shed.”

“You do this every year?” Stiles asks, staring into the fire and not at Scott. It makes it easier, that Stiles doesn’t always look at him while he talks.

“For the past four years, yeah,” Scott nods, knife moving in his hands without pause. He works like clockwork, paring the wood down to slats.

“What was it like?” Stiles asks, one hand stroking Vesta and the other behind his head as he sprawls in an uncomfortable-looking position on the rug. “Your first winter?”

_Cold and dark, running through the trees like something’s chasing him, leaping over fallen branches, Nick’s voice echoing through his head -_

“Deaton found the cabin through Mr. Baker,” he says quietly. “I told him - I told him I needed to leave the lumber camp, and the next day he found me a sort of four wheel drive caravan through the forest. There are roads on the outskirts of it, though they’re not very well maintained.”

The knife slips slick over the wood, shaving the lip up into a nice curve that will protect his goods from little snowdrifts as he pulls it home. Woodworking is not quite second nature, yet, but it is something he’s good at, sure about - something that he doesn’t give as much care as he should, sometimes. Stiles is still and quiet while he listens - apparently a trait only growing up could instill in him. Maybe only growing up to be a part-time mercenary, part-time Alpha hunter.

“Mr. Baker owns the cabin, I just rent it from him - or, well, Deaton does. Rent’s not much, though, and I make some improvements here and there to keep it in livable shape, so he gives me a discount. The first winter I was here, I - I was just coming off of being in the logging village, where I was with other guys almost all the time, and before that, the farms - I didn’t have friends when I was farming, but the loggers… I felt like they were my friends, you know? So having to leave was hard, and when I got here I was…. Sad.”

Sad seems like the wrong word for sitting outside in the middle of a blizzard, hoping to be buried in the snow and not wake up for a hundred years. It seems like too small a word and too big for all the times Scott looked at the hot, sharp poker he’d just used to stoke the fire and thought about whether or not it would rend his flesh enough to end this, or if he’d just heal. It seems like it doesn’t fit the dark satisfaction he felt when he realized he could no longer flash red eyes in the dark, could no longer feel the wolf in his veins.

“How’d you get past it?” Stiles asks, voice gentle enough that Scott can tell he understands there are many meanings of sadness, and none of them quite apply to being stuck in the wilderness far from your loved ones, left to slowly go out of your mind.

“I didn’t,” Scott says, nearly choking on it. When the knife slips, he’s not expecting it. For a long moment he doesn’t even realize what’s happened. It isn’t until he sees blood running fast down the wood and smells bright copper over the scent of woodsmoke and coffee that he realizes what he’s done - that his knife is buried in his palm, blade-first. Only then does he feel it, jarring, rushing, bright-bright-white to his brain as the pain registers, and the lumber clatters to the floor.

“Scott -?” Stiles asks, but Scott waves him away.

“Don’t look, don’t -” but it’s too late, Stiles is already there on his knees in front of Scott, face pale and mouth a thin line.

“What happened Scotty?” Stiles asks, voice unsteady. He pries Scott’s fingers open carefully, uncurling them from the side of the knife.

“You shouldn’t -” Scott starts, and hisses as his hand reflexively clenches closed again around the blade. “It’s bleeding. You’ll - you’ll pass out.”

“Congratulations! Your Stiles evolved into Not Such A Useless Fuck!” Stiles says, gently taking hold of the blade with his fingers and and cupping Scott’s hand with his own.

“Hey, you’re not -” Scott protests, and Stiles takes that moment to pull the knife free of his hand and toss it aside. It hurts, stings and throbs, and blood pools in his cupped palm, paints Stiles’ fingers. They both watch for a moment, breath held, until blood begins to run down the sides of Scott’s hand and drips onto the lumber at his feet.

“You aren’t healing,” Stiles says, not quite a question.

“I - I don’t anymore. Stopped about three years ago.” Scott shrugs with one shoulder. “There’s uh - some bandages and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll just -”

“Let me.” Before Scott can stop him, Stiles is up and tugging Scott gently toward the bathroom, leaving bloody fingerprints on Scott’s arm. He stoppers the sink and runs warm water in it, digging under the counter for the first aid supplies Scott keeps on hand - bandages, antibiotic ointment, butterfly strips, and saline. He dips Scott’s hand gently in the water, and it stings so much he nearly clenches his hand closed, but Stiles holds his fingers open and lets the blood color the water in tendrils of red and pink, until the throbbing starts to wane and the water’s murky.

Scott pulls it out and lays his hand out on the counter, keeping it open flat mostly through sheer force of will. Stiles works quickly, competently cleaning the wound with saline, dabbing antibiotic ointment gently with a fingertip. He dries Scott’s skin with a towel, careful not to get the edge into the wound, and uses three butterfly strips to close the cut.

Stiles seems transformed by his task, focus completely riveted to Scott’s palm. His hands are calloused, long fingers cool to the touch, and every touch feels more present on Scott’s skin than the touch before it. He gets distracted by the way Stiles’ eyelashes fan out, dark and thick and so long over his cheeks as he carefully places the bandages. Stiles watches Scott’s palm, and Scott watches Stiles - completely engrossed in the way he chews his lip just to one side, the little tip of his tongue that sticks out as he positions the adhesive, the way he unrolls the gauze just enough and wraps Scott’s palm with confidence and ease, leaving him some motion but providing protection from the elements.

“Can you flex your fingers?” Stiles asks, and Scott does. It’s uncomfortable, but the bandages don’t pull too much, and he can mostly close his hand.

“You’re really good at that,” Scott says, letting his hand fall from Stiles’ grasp and immediately missing it. He babbles to cover it, hoping his face doesn’t look quite as warm as it feels. “A lot better than I am. Last time I cut myself I think I nearly choked myself with the gauze trying to wrap it up.”

Stiles smiles, sweeter and softer than Scott’s seen him smile in a long time. He packs away the bandages and sweeps the trash into the little can next to the counter. It’s almost awkward, the stretch of silence between them, until Stiles breaks it and says, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m here, then, huh?”

Scott reaches out and grabs Stiles’ hand with his own uninjured one, squeezing. “It’s a good thing,” Scott tells him, not bothering to look away when a blush rises high on his cheeks. “It’s - it’s the best thing.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Good thing Stiles has all that snow to put on his dick in case of awkward boners.” - [Dea](http://tofixtheshadows.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I was going to wait and make this chapter longer, but as it's been almost a month since my last update (which I am very sorry about) I figured you'd rather have a regular length chapter now than an extra long one in another week and a half.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include loss of appetite as a symptom of sadness / depression. Scott's displayed it before but because it's becoming a more regular thing, I wanted to make sure I noted it. 
> 
> Song lyrics mentioned are from the song ["Victory" by Trampled by Turtles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FT8gaiNVqOM). Many thanks to [Taylor](http://taylorpotato.tumblr.com/) for helping me find the song. If you want to listen to the music I'm using to help guide me through this process, you can find the playlist [here.](http://8tracks.com/quicklikelight/sawdust-and-snow) Thanks as always to [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com) for beta-reading for me, and to Dea and [Carrie](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) for talking through the To Post or Not To Post situation with me. <3

Scott rises before the sun, but that’s not difficult to do these days since daylight doesn’t begin until around ten in the morning. He notices immediately how quiet it is - no wind howling, no white hush droning as ice piles upon ice, just quiet. He draws back the drapes and peeks out into the pre-dawn world, all white and pink and blue and completely still.

“Good news,” he says, wrapping his robe more securely around himself with his uninjured hand as he walks into the living area. Stiles is sleeping on the floor, a mound of blankets and the cushions from the couch made into a small nest there. He must have gotten tired of hitting his head on the sofa in the night. “The storm stopped. We can go outside today.”

Stiles grumbles for a moment without waking, and Scott notices a book on the floor near his nest, something off of Scott’s shelves. He smiles to himself; there’ve been many mornings when the sun rose before he did because something on those shelves kept him up most of the night. He decides to let breakfast do his work for him, putting the kettle on for coffee and tea. Scott looks through the refrigerator thoughtfully. He doesn’t keep eggs since they’re difficult to come by and tend to go bad before he can use them, but he does have bacon in the freezer - not that it’s going to do him much good this morning, seeing as it’s still frozen. He pops it into the fridge to defrost for tomorrow and looks again for something more appealing than the oatmeal they’re both already sick of. He remembers Mr. Baker telling him once that his wife made french toast without eggs using cornstarch, and digs out his container. Tucked inside the plastic bin is a handwritten note with various uses for cornstarch on it, all in Mrs. Baker’s neat script, and among them, a recipe for french toast.

He doesn’t have powdered sugar or the strawberry cream cheese filling that he used to get when he and Stiles got french toast at IHOP in high school, but he does have fresh, pure birch syrup by the gallon, some sweetened condensed milk, and plenty of regular sugar. He’s going to make this work.

He turns on his little radio to play softly as he dips the bread slices in his cornstarch mixture. He hums along with the odd bluegrass songs that come in on his AM station, and sings when he knows the words.

> _All of us lonely, it ain't a sin,_
> 
> _To want something better than the shape you’re in._
> 
> _The rain came at the break of day._
> 
> _Your light in the windowpane said come on in._

Half an hour later, just as the first batch of toasts is cooling off on the plate, Scott hears Stiles ask in a hoarse voice, “You’re not frying oatmeal, right?”

“No,” Scott can’t help but laugh. “Come in here and see. I have a surprise for you.”

Stiles does indeed look surprised when he sees the stack of toast, sweet and buttery, sprinkled with sugar, and a warm cup of syrup next to it. Half an instant later he looks like he’s planning to devour the entire plate.

“Whoa, hold on,” Scott laughs, whisking the plate out of Stiles’ hands and setting it on the table. He feeds Vesta the plain heel of the bread, noting he’ll have to bake another loaf soon. When he looks up from washing his hands, Stiles has the rest of the table set and the toast portioned out on their plates in equal amounts, drizzling syrup over his own out of the mug. The instant he tastes it, his eyes light up.

“Wow, is this the real thing?” he asks, and Scott nods.

“Yep. Tapped it myself from a stand of birch trees nearby last winter,” Scott grins, pouring syrup over his own stack of toast. It had been an adventure, figuring out how to work the spiles, to drive them in just right and collect the huge amount of sap he needed to make the syrup. It had been… fun, almost.

“How?” Stiles asks, eyes lit up in that way that he gets when he’s curious and invested at the same time. It warms Scott through.

“Well, there’s this little stand about thirty meters that way,” Scott points, and Stiles follows with his eyes, nodding. “I got the supplies from Mr. Baker, he makes tons of syrup every year. I just took my power drill and drilled some holes into the trees the way he showed me, and then put my spiles in the way they needed to go, and hung the buckets over them - they have covers so you can keep ice and stuff out of them. And then every day I went and gathered up the sap and kept it in a big barrel outside. Then at the end, I boiled it all down until I got syrup out of it. It was tough, but Miller came up so I’d have an extra pair of hands during that part, and it was - we had a good day.”

“Well we are totally doing that,” Stiles says, self-assured, and Scott blinks at him, an odd tightness in his chest.

“We - um,” he hesitates. “We can’t now. Sap doesn’t run until February.”

Stiles stills for a second, fork halfway to his mouth, and then nods as he takes his bite. He speaks around the mouthful of food, somehow no less endearing for all its gross familiarity. “February huh? I’ll put it on the calendar.”

Scott washes his own food down with tea, letting the topic pass as naturally as it can. It’s ridiculous, of course, to think about Stiles still being here in February when the days will be warm enough for sap to run clear out of the trees. The roads aren’t passable right now, but by January the ice roads will be fully functioning and he’ll be able to make it to the airport to fly home.

He’ll be gone, and Scott will be alone again.

He looks down at his plate, half-eaten and dripping with thick, sticky syrup. Half an hour ago while it sizzled in the pan, it sounded like the most delicious thing he’d had in years, but now he’s sure he won’t be able to swallow another bite.

“So,” Stiles says, either ignorant of Scott’s anguish or ignoring it, “The storm’s stopped huh? S’that mean we can go outside finally?”

Scott looks up, swallowing down his hurt and putting on a brave face. Stiles is here _now_. He’s got to enjoy it while he can.

“Yeah, we’ll need to go outside and check out the damage, make sure there are no downed branches in bad places or anything. Should keep us busy until the sun goes back down.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says, slurping up the last of the birch syrup on his plate and setting it aside. “Hey, uh - you don’t have a jacket I can borrow, do you? I think my jeans and stuff are fine, but you said my coat wasn’t heavy enough.”

Scott shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, I’ve got a jacket for you alright. C’mon, there’s some stuff in the surplus closet that you’ll need if we’re going to get anything done today.”

The rest of the french toast sits on the plate, forgotten.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Stiles had said, holding up the full-body snowsuit Scott had pushed on him, but as soon as they step out into the air it becomes abruptly apparent that it’s necessary. When Scott’s going to be chopping wood or tapping trees he can get by with a few layers of flannel and thermals plus some Carhartt overalls, but for checking the perimeter so close to sun-up, he layers on a puffy ski-suit under his parka, and Stiles is just close enough to his size to wear his second one. They both look kind of funny in the thick coats, bib pants, and floppy snowshoes - but Scott’s willing to look funny if it means avoiding feeling the frigid air on any more of his skin.

Not that being covered in all the winter gear in the world could keep him completely safe. It takes all of ten minutes stamping around in their snowshoes and parkas before Scott is hit with a facefull of snow. His first instinct is to crouch for cover, but then Stiles’ voice sounds, and Scott rolls his eyes instead.

“Fucking _owned_ ,” Stiles crows, punching the air.

“You literally learned how to snowshoe right now - how do you think this is going to turn out, Stiles?” Scott asks, bending down to clump together a snowball of his own.

“Can’t be too hard if you figured out how to do it,” Stiles jabs, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he scoops up more snow, patting it into a ball.

“Right,” Scott laughs, “Because you’ve always been the epitome of -” he dodges Stiles’ poorly-flung projectile - “athleticism and grace.”

He takes aim himself and lands his first snowball just over Scott’s head. He adjusts and the next one smacks into the side of Stiles’ face, powdery snow bursting over his skin and slipping down under his scarf.

“Fuck fuck fuck -” Stiles yanks his scarf off, trying to get the snow off his skin before it melts completely. Scott doubles over laughing as he nearly chokes himself with it, and Stiles rears back, squinting against the bright sun-on-snow. “Oh yeah Scotty? S’that how it is? I’m gonna give you something to laugh about -”

Scott sees it before it happens, the way the floppy fronts of Stiles’ snowshoes dip deep into the powder, the way his forward momentum doesn’t stop. He rushes forward to catch Stiles, but he skids over a patch of ice, translucent against the white satin of the snow. His heart stops as Stiles sort of falls into him, and then he falls onto his back, pulling Stiles down with him. When he opens his eyes, he’s flat on his back, Stiles’ body pressing heavily down on top of his with only the thick, downy snowsuits keeping them apart.

He’s never wanted so badly to be naked in sub-zero temperatures.

 

 

Stiles’ cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, breath a cloud between them as his lips part. Everything stills around them, and it’s so quiet that Scott can hear his own heartbeat tripping over itself in his chest. Stiles doesn’t move - the _world_ doesn’t move, and somehow in the last three days, those two things have coalesced to be the same thing in his mind, Stiles and the Whole World. He isn’t even surprised. The way Stiles swept back into his life feels like a fever dream, like he could believe anything, even that there could be more in his life than waking and sleeping and suffering in between. Scott’s sure he’s going to lean down, close the inches that separate them, take him away from the horrible reality that has shaped around him just as surely as a fever in the night, too far gone to be anything but happy about the relief offered.

Stiles’ eyes flutter closed, but Scott doesn’t want to miss any of it - not the way Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips, not the way his eyelashes look spread across his cheeks, not the way his breath hitches a bit as he sinks a little lower, bringing their mouths closer -

Not the way Vesta barrels full-speed into them both, sending Stiles sprawling to the side and forcing the air out of Scott’s lungs as flops across his stomach.

“Oh my god you are the worst,” Stiles groans from his spot in the snow. Scott’s inclined to agree. He shoves Vesta off with a huff and climbs to his feet, offering a hand to help Stiles up. The spell of the moment is broken, and looking at Stiles’ face just confirms it, but Scott doesn’t mind. Instead, he feels almost buoyant as he helps brush snow from Stiles’ back and cap. This opportunity may have been missed, but he knows they’ll find another - it’s not, he thinks, like there’s a whole lot else to do up here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter is courtesy the amazing [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com) and can be reblogged [from here.](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com/post/145593064985/when-scott-opens-his-eyes-hes-flat-on-his-back)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com) & [Savanna](http://detective-prettyboy.tumblr.com) for reassuring me on this chapter and giving it a read-through for me. It's a little longer than usual! No warnings for this chapter except for oblique references to killing for money. :)

“I had an idea of something we might do today, if you want,” Scott says as casually as he can the next morning, looking at Stiles over the top edge of the novel he’s reading - some crime drama that he’s barely interested in, except there’s a funny side character that sort of reminds him of Derek. He likes finding his old friends in other people and places. It makes it easier to feel like he hasn’t lost them.

“Is it more shoveling?” Stiles groans, rolling over in his nest on the floor to give Scott a baleful look. They’d spent the majority of the day before shoveling paths to the utilities shed and the workshop, and even Scott was a little sore. Stiles drank his soup the night before by bringing his mouth to his bowl instead of vice versa.

“No,” Scott laughs. He marks his page and sets his book down. “I thought we might go to town today, to get supplies - if you’re not too sore, that is.”

“Town? Yeah - yes, uh, no, not too sore, when can we go, right now? Let me get my socks,” Stiles says, a jumble of words that makes them both laugh. He’s been doing his best to hide the stir-crazy, but it’s obviously gotten to him despite the hard labor Scott’s subjected him to.

“Let me shower first, then we’ll go. Be sure to layer up - um. There’s some extra longjohns in my top dresser drawer. They might be a little short on your legs but it’ll be better than nothing.”

He disappears into the bathroom before he lets himself think anymore about Stiles in his clothes, his long limbs covered in Scott’s scent. He isn’t even positive where that instinct is coming from, most of his wolf-imbued senses long defunct, but it’s effective nonetheless. He feels sort of giddy, almost breathless, as he leans against the bathroom door, a smile on his face that sort of hurts. It’s a good pain.

Scott showers efficiently as always, maybe even a little faster because of excitement over taking Stiles to town. It’s strange - he doesn’t really like going, usually, and does his damnedest not to go at all after the first big snowfall, but he’s looking forward to the trip, even if it _is_ going to be freezing.

Almost an hour passes before they’re both dressed, layered up with ski suits and parkas on over longjohns, shirts and pants, sweatshirts, and two pair of thick woolen socks each. Stiles can barely move in all of his gear, but he doesn’t seem to care as he hobbles out into the snow.

 

 

The extra helmet Scott keeps for emergencies is in the workshop, and he only remembers it once he’s already started on the path toward the snowmobile shed. He could double back, but Stiles is behind him. The path is only really large enough for one of them, and the idea of brushing past Stiles to get the helmet makes Scott feel woozy - like someone’s sucked all the air out of his chest. Instead, Scott walks straight across the little stretch of unshoveled snow,  sinking into the snowdrift up to his thighs.

“It’s deep here,” he says unnecessarily as Stiles barrels in after him. “You might - okay, nevermind, come right on in.”

He can’t help but laugh when Stiles’ face goes scrunchy, realizing he can’t really walk this way.

“Holy - how do you - Scott this is -” He can’t seem to wrap his brain - or his mouth - around an entire sentence, but Scott doesn’t need him to.

“You warm enough?” Scott asks, ignoring Stiles’ question. “I wear about three layers every time I come outside, minimum, more once January hits and the blizzards start up. Coming out after dark means it’s significantly colder.”

He walks haphazardly through the snowdrift and back to the area he’s kept shoveled out, making a path for Stiles to follow. There’s a little hill at the end and Stiles slips, but Scott catches him before he can fall. There are layers of clothes between Scott’s hands and Stiles’ skin, but he still feels a bit warmer when Stiles grins up at him, flushed, and says, “Thanks Scotty.”

When they’re finally both upright, Stiles dusts himself off and then dusts Scott off too, making them both laugh.

“So that’s why we spent all of yesterday afternoon shoveling. Pretty effective lesson,” Stiles says, gesturing toward the shed. “I thought we were going to town, though. How are we supposed to get there if the whole wood is like this?”

“Easy. We just stay on top of it.” Scott winks.

“Easy, huh?” Stiles looks dubious. “Well don’t let me stop you. If you’ve finally figured out how to walk on water, I want to be the first to see it.”

“Shut up,” Scott laughs, cuffs him and rolls his eyes. It feels like ten years have disappeared between them, fallen away like brushed-off snow. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

 

 

“You didn’t tell me snowmobiles were this fast!” Stiles yells over the buzz of the engine, the quiet whoosh of still air as they cut through it. He’s clinging to Scott’s waist, words slightly muffled by his scarf, and thighs bunched up to Scott’s ribs. It feels good, having Stiles at his back, having the warmth of him pressing up against Scott and an extra set of eyes to keep on the sled they’re pulling. It feels good having Stiles.

“You didn’t ask,” he yells back, smiling. The ride to town isn’t as far as it feels when he’s warm and bundled up at home - within forty minutes he can see the year-round lights that Mr. Baker keeps on to help guide travelers toward the general store that also sort of serves as their community center and post office. Scott pulls the snowmobile right up to the front walk and kills the motor, smiling as he feels Stiles’ sigh of relief. It feels so much like riding through the preserve on his bike with Stiles protesting at his back that he can’t fight the sudden well-up of tears in his eyes, but for once -

He’s not sad.

“Is that an actual soda shop?” Stiles demands instantly, and Scott’s reminded that he’ll need to bring home a treat for Vesta - possibly ice cream.

“Yeah - um, Miller? The guy that brought you to the cabin? He owns it.” He points at the buildings as he names them, “Store slash post office, butcher, the bank, clothes and gear shop, hardware store, soda fountain, and the Catholic church is in that storefront with the -”

“The crucifix on it, yeah, I can see that,” Stiles says, squinting at it. “And this is… the whole town?”

“Well, there’s a little airport a couple of miles that way,” Scott points west, “and then the houses to the east. There’s a small school and a public library near the houses. But yeah, this is… this is it. Didn’t you see it when you came through?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” Stiles admits. “The trucker dropped me off at the store, and Miller was in there talking to the old guy -”

“Mr. Baker,” Scott corrects.

“Yeah, Baker, and I asked about you, and Baker called someone… I guess Deaton?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t know. Deaton didn’t call to warn me, but he doesn’t call often anyway. We only talk a few times a year.”

“It had to be Deaton though,” Stiles continues. “Because he asked who I was and what I wanted, and then Miller offered to drive me out to your cabin before the storm got too bad to drive.”

“Of course he did,” Scott grumbles, but Stiles shoves him gently.

“Don’t be mad he knew you needed me, man. He seems like a cool guy.”

“Yeah, that’s because you don’t know him yet,” Scott answers, but he knows Stiles is at least partially right - Ezra Miller gets him like nobody else here gets him, and it gets under his skin.

Stiles pulls off his helmet and replaces it with an extra ski cap that he borrowed from Scott’s closet. “First thing’s first - I need to go into this winter stuff store and buy like everything they have.”

The cold weather outfitter is one of the only really modern looking buildings in town. It was an old store, but someone with plenty of sense recognized it would do the most business in town besides the grocery, and decided to fit it out with everything they could - from parkas to ski gear to insulated tents and hiking supplies. Technically, Scott thinks, it’s probably a general “Sports and Outdoors” shop - but in reality the large range of long underwear, layering clothing, and heavy snowsuits are the prime real estate here.

Stiles shops efficiently, grabbing things in his size and barely looking at the tags. He gets an armload of longjohns, wool socks, and sturdy Carhartt work pants, several thermal long-sleeved tee-shirts, and two different polar fleece jackets to wear under the giant parka and snowsuit he throws on top of their little buggy. Within twenty minutes, they’re at the counter with a winter wardrobe just as big as Scott’s - if not bigger - and Scott’s heart creeps into his throat. He’s not sure how they’ll pay for all this and food too - he knows he has some extra money saved with Deaton, but he doesn’t have an arrangement with anyone in town except for Mr. Baker, and he only has a couple hundred dollars in his account here -

“You take plastic right?” Stiles asks, digging his wallet out of his back pocket. “Or do I need to pay in firewood?”

“Credit or debit?” the cashier asks, plainly unamused.

“Debit,” Stiles answers, swiping his card through the machine and punching in a number that looks suspiciously like Scott’s birthdate. Before Scott can ask about it, he sees the total on the checkout screen and his eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“ _Six hundred dollars_?” he asks as they carry a box of Stiles’ new winter things out to the sled behind the snowmobile. “Stiles, that’s crazy - you don’t even need -”

“I got what I needed,” Stiles says, handing Scott the strap to tie the box down with. “And the money isn’t an issue.”

“How can it not be an issue?” Scott’s - well, mindboggled. Dropping $600 at one time on anything that isn’t supplies for his business seems like a much bigger deal than Stiles is making it out to be. Stiles shrugs him off, though, looking toward the general store.

“Come on,” he says, practically pushing Scott toward Baker’s storefront. “There’s a man in there that has stuff we can eat for breakfast that isn’t oatmeal. We need to see him. And buy stuff that isn’t oatmeal.”

Scott’s unease doesn’t go away completely - it’s weird that Stiles won’t just tell him how he can drop that much money at once with no foreseeable income for a while at least - but it does lessen as they enter the store and Mr. Baker’s face lights up in greeting.

“Scotty, it’s good to see ya out,” he says, clapping Scott on the shoulder like he always does. Scott can’t help but smile at him and reach out to shake his other hand.

“It’s good to be out,” he says honestly. “Uh, I think you met my friend St-”

“Steven,” Stiles interrupts, reaching forward to shake Mr. Baker’s hand as well. “We met briefly the night I got into town.”

“Yeh-ap, I remember,” Baker says, smiling thoughtfully like he’s trying to remember Stiles’ face. Scott does his best not to react to Stiles’ fake name - it’s obvious he felt he needed one, though Scott’s not sure how Deaton would have known it was Stiles. Before the fear of some unknown randomly getting a ride to his cabin with Mr. Baker sets into the base of his skull, Stiles physically steers him toward the back of the store where the cold groceries are kept.

“Eggs,” Stiles says bracingly. “They have eggs! And - uh, looks like some sort of liquid eggs, which is even better because you can freeze those for later.”

He starts loading the buggy up with things from the refrigerators - eggs, orange juice concentrate, fresh packaged bacon from the butcher, kneaded bread dough rounds that just need to rise. Scott just watches, eyes wide, as Stiles fills one cart and then another with supplies - everything from razors (Scott scratches absently at his beard, trying to ignore the feeling that maybe he should have shaved) to chocolate bars to cheese.

“Ya tryin’a buy me out, son?” Baker calls from the counter, but Stiles is distracted by an aisle in the back that Scott virtually never goes down - weird old things that ended up in the store either by divine intervention or mislabeled wholesale, one.

“Scott -” Stiles says, voice rising a little like it does when he’s anxious, or upset. Scott immediately searches the room for any sign of danger, but all he sees is Stiles’ hand impatiently waving him over to the back wall where -

“Is that a _Gamecube_?” Scott asks incredulously.

“It sure as hell looks like it,” Stiles laughs. He wraps an arm around Scott’s shoulder and smacks him on the chest, like he would have when they were kids, and Scott turns into it just a little - the way he turns into all Stiles’ touches. “Guess who’s getting his ass kicked at Mario Party like it’s 2005 tonight?”

“Um… me?” Scott asks, thoughts already drifting to the big, unused TV in his hallway closet. If anyone could make it all work together, Stiles could.

“Hows about I box this stuff up,” Baker says, looking at the mess of groceries, “and ya can come back fer it after ya finish yer other rat killin’.”

Stiles looks briefly disgusted but nods. “Yeah, we’ll settle up after milkshakes - c’mon Scott.”

Scott lets Stiles drag him all the way out the door before he stops, boots skidding on the salted sidewalk.

“Hey, wait,” he says, even though it’s so cold outside he doesn’t want to breathe in. “Listen, I have enough supplies to get us through December without an issue. If you were thinking you needed to, I dunno, make up for something in there - and I’m not even talking about the name thing, just - it’s going to be so expensive, buying all that stuff, and I don’t want you to feel like you need to -”

“I need to,” Stiles interrupts, blunt. “And I can, so I’m going to. Unless you’re planning to leave me and the sled in town, your options are to let me, or to begrudgingly let me. That’s pretty much it.”

“So you’re saying you’re buying all this stuff and bringing it to my home, whether I like it or not?” Scott asks, eyebrows up. He’s not sure why he’s pushing it, except he’s gotten so used to living the way he does - everything in Stiles’ basket represents a change, and the changes that come along with Stiles aren’t always good.

Especially when they’re temporary.

“C’mon Scotty,” Stiles says, obviously realizing his misstep. Stiles is shivering in his coat, but Scott feels nothing except the numb cold and a little ball of stubborn heat at his center. “I just wanted to get some stuff to help us pass the time, that’s all - that, and eat breakfast without wanting to puke. Is that too much for me to do?”

“I guess that depends on why you’re doing it,” Scott counters.

“Because I…” Stiles trails off, takes a step forward, toward him, and then stops halfway through the next step. He wavers there with one boot planted, one barely touching the ground, until finally his heel comes back to the pavement. “Because I want those things. I’m cold and I’m tired of oatmeal and I don’t like novels as much as you do. Is that so bad?”

Scott softens. Stiles may have been on the road a while, but he’s obviously never had to deal with the prospect of months of winter weather isolation before. It would be cruel to deny him things he wants to buy, just because Scott’s used to living so spartanly - and will have to go back to it when Stiles is gone.

 _It’s like a vacation_ , he thinks. _A vacation where I get to relax and live like a normal guy. And at the end of it, he’ll go home and I’ll… go back._

“Alright,” Scott relents. “Fine. But when we get home you’re explaining the ‘Steven’ thing.”

“You got it,” Stiles says immediately. “Can we go inside now? I’m freezing.”

Scott points toward the soda shop across the little square. “Lead the way.”

 


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the chapter I expected to be posting, but it's the chapter I needed to write before we could move forward with Scott and Stiles. I'm sorry that it took me so long to come to terms with that. I hope, even though it's short, you'll enjoy this peek into Scott's past.

The fire crackles brightly and the men in Scott’s team sit around it paying little mind to the cold bite of late autumn air. Most of them are warmed by whiskey more than the flames, but Scott feels warm for another reason entirely - Nick’s knee is pressed against his own, and it doesn’t mean anything except there wasn’t enough room in the circle for all of them tonight, but he’s still allowed to enjoy it.

Logging is hard work. Even Scott comes home at the end of the day sore and tired, legs aching and back stiff from all the exertion. The opportunities for fun are limited though, especially with their crew being this far out into the forest, and the sun’s long gone by the time they give up on the fire and pack into the little campers they all stay in together for the season.

“Back to the bunks?” Nick asks, his peculiar Canadian accent heavier with drink.

“It’s getting a little cold,” Scott concedes with a grin. Nick always teases him about being a California boy, too wimpy for Alaskan seasons.

“You’re going to steal the blankets again tonight aren’t ya?” Nick ribs him, elbow burying itself gently in Scott’s side. Scott overreacts to it, like he’s going to fall over, and almost trips on a random branch on the ground. Nick catches him, laughing.

“Careful, you’ll turn your ankle and be no use to us at all. Can’t get you up the tree if you’re hobbling.”

Nick’s hand around his waist feels so right, Scott has to fight not to snuggle right into Nick’s side and stay there. He steadies himself, stands up straight and tosses a playful wink at Nick.

“You caught me - just trying to see if I could get out of work tomorrow,” he laughs, and Nick pushes him away, laughing too. Around them, the air is still and clear, filled with the soft sounds of the forest at night as it begins to go to sleep.

They sleep in the same bed, a larger one to make up for the fact that they have to share. Scott doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t think Nick does either. They’re just friends, but they’ve been on the same crew for two years now and they’re closer than the others by more than a little. Scott’s not even sure Nick knows everyone else’s names, but he never sleeps in the little cot that technically should belong to him or Scott, choosing instead the solid bed in the back of the pop-up camper. Scott settles in on the inside, deep in the warm blanket that he bought from the supply shop weeks ago. He’s never weathered an Alaskan winter on the job like this, and he’s glad for his thick socks and thicker blankets, even though it’s still only October.

“G’night Scotty,” Nick says softly, turning over on his belly to sleep. Scott watches him for a long moment, letting himself imagine that Nick’s more than just his friend, that they sleep together every night out of choice rather than necessity. His hands itch and ache to curl around Nick’s body, pull him close so they can snuggle together against the cool air. Instead he turns over on his other side and stares at the wall.

“Nigh’ night Nick.”

 

The morning blazes crisp and clear as they set off toward their patch of forest. Nick drives the ATV through the thick underbrush and Scott hangs onto the back safety rack to stay in place, rather than wrapping his arms around Nick’s waist. Their crew of 8 is spread out over the hillside today, working different plots of land in twos for safety.

“Steady on your feet today?” Nick asks as Scott slips into a safety harness and coils his cables over his shoulder. He’s a climber, gets high up in the trees and delimbs them before he and Nick can fell the timber, makes sure there aren’t any nests or cones that can be saved. He enjoys the work even though it’s hard. Deforestation is terrible, of course, but he soothes himself by planting seeds and cones wherever he can to encourage new growth, and rehoming all the bird nests he finds. Besides - it’s far better that he’s the one doing the most dangerous job here, since if he fell he’d heal so much faster than the others. He likes to think he’s still saving lives, in some small ways.

“Feeling pretty good,” Scott says, going up and down on his toes to show off. He hikes up the chosen tree and gets to work, using cable to secure himself and then carefully sawing the limbs off of the old pine, calling out to Nick as each crashes to the ground. The morning passes quickly, as it generally does when he’s climbing. He and Nick work with minimal fuss, most of their communication by hand signals or short calls - faultlessly in tune, perfectly in sync.

That’s why it’s such a shock when Scott sees the next tree over start to shudder - one that wasn’t marked off on their map.

“Nick?” he calls, but all he hears is the buzz of Nick’s chainsaw. Then, abruptly, the saw stops and Nick screams.

Scott acts without thinking, using his claws to slash through his harness and hitting the ground from thirty feet up without even feeling it, driven by fear and instinct. He isn’t strong enough to hold an entire tree up by himself, but if he can just push it away from Nick -

His eyes find Nick on the ground near the base of the tree, tangled in a downed limb and looking up in horror as the timber falls toward him. Scott moves quickly, scooting under the falling tree and shoving with all his might, away from Nick’s frozen form. The wood cracks with the impact, and his shoulder throbs as he pushes until the timber is felled, laying across the ground like a fallen enemy rather than just another byproduct of their work.

“How did you -” Nick stops and sputters, staring at Scott. “What’s wrong with your -?”

Scott freezes, hands coming up to his face. His claws are out, the hard ridge of his forehead prolonged, his canines dragging against his bottom lip. He shifts back quickly, but the damage is already done - Nick looks at him in horror, like Scott is -

Like Scott is a monster.

“What are you?” he demands, angry and scared. He heaves himself backward, more afraid of Scott than he was the tree that would have killed him.

“Nick, please - I can explain -” Scott starts, and he thinks, _How did it come to this again? How does it always come down to this?_

“Honestly I don’t think I want to know,” Nick says, and he’s shaking, a post-adrenaline response, Scott knows, but it looks like simple fear of something you only expect to find hiding in a dark closet or under the bed.

“I’m not a monster -” Scott starts, but the _I’m a werewolf_ sticks behind his tongue, leaves a silence between them that breathes and grows like a living thing, blotting out two years of friendship, of closeness Scott hasn’t experienced since -

“I told you, I don’t want to know,” Nick snarls, and finds his feet, anger winning out over the fear now that Scott looks harmless. Now that Scott looks normal. “Whatever you are, you’re not telling the others are you?”

“No,” Scott agrees. “No one can know. Please, Nick -”

“Don’t,” Nick interrupts. “Go, and I won’t say anything. If you come back, though... I can’t let you be around the rest of the crew. Not without them knowing you aren’t one of us.”

The words beat a rapid tattoo in his head - _not one of us, not one of us_. It’s not something he’s thought of in the four years since he started logging. He found his place so easily among his crews, and once he found Nick…

It was like having a pack again. And this, this is like losing his pack all over.

“Take it,” Nick says coldly, and tosses Scott the keys to the ATV. It’s a two mile hike back through the woods, but he has a feeling Nick won’t appreciate the offer of a ride. “Get out of here while everyone else is still at their stations. I’ll tell ‘em…” He stops, swallows, and forges on. “I’ll tell ‘em you had a family emergency, had to leave.”

“Nick, you don’t have to do this,” Scott begs, but Nick just shakes his head. “I can explain - I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just - we’re friends, right? We’re friends.”

“We’re not friends. I don’t even know you.” Nick turns away, hoisting his saw and nodding toward the road. “Get out of here Scott. If you leave now, you can make it to town before nightfall.”

 

“Deaton?” Scott asks, voice shaking. “Is - are you there? I’m sorry it’s so late, I just -”

“Scott, what’s the matter?”

Deaton’s voice is tinny through the earpiece of the phone, but just hearing it brings tears to Scott’s eyes. He can’t breathe through the stormy sobs, and for long minutes he just listens to the sound of Deaton breathing on the other end of the line, the only friend he has left in a world that is supposed to forget about him, while he cries.

“Scott, what do you need?” Deaton asks after he’s calmed down enough to control his breathing and blow his nose.

“I - I need a place to go. Somewhere - somewhere no one can find me. Somewhere I won’t have to worry about anyone _knowing_.”

Deaton is silent for a few seconds and then says, voice soft and gentle, “I know just the place, Scott. Don’t worry. I’ll make this right.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LC recently informed me that Ezra Miller is a fairly famous actor. I had zero idea about this - my Ezra Miller is a broad-chested black man in his early thirties, and his brother Elias is his identical twin. Elias wears glasses. Their facecast is this guy: <http://66.media.tumblr.com/86be5a719c7a5d7f03f7a0e09908306e/tumblr_inline_nnfla7wbq21t3qylm_500.png>.
> 
> Lee is biracial with obvious Cree heritage. I don't have a face cast for him because I couldn't find one I really loved. You failed me Google! 
> 
> All the thanks to LC for beta reading this one and making sure I didn't cut it off too soon.

The soda fountain is so warm that as soon as the door shuts behind them, Scott and Stiles both begin peeling off layers.

“Little chilly out there, huh boys?” Ezra laughs at them from behind the counter, broad shoulders shaking.

“You could say that,” Stiles drawls, shaking snowflakes from his new parka before hanging it up on a rack on the wall, already half full of coats despite them being the only people in the store.

Behind the counter, Ezra’s boyfriend Lee is meticulously sprinkling sugar snowflakes over the top of a prettily frosted cake. He doesn’t even look up as he says, “Hi Scott. Who’s your friend?”

“How does he even know it’s you?” Stiles asks under his breath.

“Indian magic,” Lee says instantly. Ezra snorts.

“Or, Elias saw you two drive up an hour ago and we’ve been waiting for you to drop by since,” he says.

“Elias is here?” Scott perks up. He likes Elias, though they rarely see one another since the butcher is only here through the winter and spring.

“He got in a couple of days ago for the winter. They’re already to the chafing stage - you missed all the weird twin stuff,” Lee says, and Ezra nudges him in the ribs with an elbow in retaliation. Ezra gets a faceful of sugar snowflakes for his trouble, and Scott grins as he sputters and smacks Lee’s hand away, obviously unharmed.

Elias trundles down the stairs seconds later, slapping the top of the doorframe as he comes in. He crosses the room and tugs Scott in for a backslapping hug. “Scott! My man, what are you doing here? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s snowing outside.”

“I thought I’d get out and see the sights,” Scott shrugs, warm all over at Elias’ friendly touch and jovial expression.

“I’m glad you did. We were just about to have lunch - you guys have to sit and eat with us,” Elias says, not even looking to Ezra for confirmation. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is St - even,” Scott says a little haltingly, but Stiles doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Steven Hunter,” Stiles says offering his hand.

“Elias Miller,” Elias says in return, shaking his hand, and then points at his twin. “That’s Ezra, we’re related, and his boyfriend Lee - we’re not related, despite what some folks will tell you about the territories.”

Stiles laughs, shocked at Elias’ quick wit. Scott grins too - can’t help but do so with so much warmth in the room. They settle at the counter without much convincing, feet dangling from the tall stools as Elias brings out plates and Ezra turns on a little indoor grill. They make a sort of assembly line, Lee and the twins - Lee shapes burger patties with his hands, Ezra grills them to perfection, and Elias plates them up on buns that look like they came from an oven rather than a package. Scott watches, delight clear on his face, and in twenty minutes of small talk over the sizzle of meat on the grill, everyone’s plate is full of food and he has a coke float in an icy glass.

“Vesta’s going to be disappointed when I tell her we came here,” he jokes before taking a big bite of his burger. The venison patty is delicious, but it only takes a second look at Stiles’ face to see that it doesn’t quite taste like what he expected.

“It’s not - it’s not beef,” Scott says, trying not to laugh at Stiles’ attempt to cover up his shock. “We don’t have a lot of cows up here, uh, Steven.”

“Scott’s right,” Elias says with a grin. “I butchered this deer this morning, actually. This is as fresh as meat gets.”

Stiles swallows audibly and turns a delicate shade of green. Despite all his big talk about traveling with Braeden, he’s apparently still just as weak stomached about some things. Scott warms at the thought. He knows they’ve changed - they both have, immensely, and it’s obvious - but there are ways, too, in which they’re the same. Ways like this. It makes it easier for him to forget that Stiles has a life on the other side of the frozen winter, that he has a place to go that Scott can’t follow.

“So what brings you out of your cave, Mr. Hermit? For real this time,” Elias asks, and Scott can’t fault him.

“Steven’s here for the winter,” he says simply. “I wasn’t prepared, so we had to go get more groceries and supplies.”

“Extra boxes of batteries for your weird closet full of batteries?” Ezra asks with a laugh. Scott laughs with him, flushing a little.

“I think we may have kept it to only one extra box of batteries, but two spare flashlights,” Stiles cuts in.

“You all laugh,” Lee says quietly, “but when the power inevitably fails, at least one of these guys is going to suggest we ride out to Scott’s cottage and take shelter until it comes back. It happens every year.”

Scott blinks. “You guys never come out to the cabin. I was surprised Ezra even knew where to bring Steven when he dropped him off.”

“Everybody knows where old Lacklutter place is,” Lee says dismissively. “No one ever goes out there because you may as well have a big ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign hanging above the door, eh? We don’t want to bother you.”

“Oh,” Scott says softly. He knows he hasn’t made himself all that welcoming - that he’s done the very opposite, in fact, to most everyone - but the fact that someone might have wanted to visit him before Stiles came along sinks in heavy and hard. He wonders what it could have been like, sharing his space with the twins, or Lee and his brother Chris, or any of the other young people in town that he knows by face and name but nothing else.

“Well he’s used to having a guest now,” Stiles says, fondness evident in his voice. “Maybe we can convince him to take on some more.”

“Sounds like you’re exactly what he needed then, Steven,” Ezra says with a smile that’s a little too smug. He’s maybe not wrong though.

 

“You sure everything’s going to stay on there?” Stiles asks eyeballing the packed sled dubiously. Scott shrugs.

“If it doesn’t then we stop and pick it up and put it back on. Or we don’t and someone finds it next summer twenty miles away or something. Just get on the snowmobile, Stiles.” The sled behind the snowmobile is packed tight, but Scott’s driven home with larger packs of supplies before, and most of the bulk of this load is clothes from Stiles’ winter shopping. He settles on the seat, engine purring underneath him, and within seconds Stiles is wrapping himself around Scott from behind, getting settled in for the long ride back.

The sun is already gone for the day, having only been up a handful of hours before it disappeared again, but the snowmobile’s single headlight illuminates the open trail in front of them. Snow falls softly, blown on a gentle breeze, and the sound of the Yamaha engine buzzing breaks the silence of the forest. The helmets muffle it, and Scott’s grateful.

He used to come out sometimes, especially at first. He’d ride his sled through the wood out to the quiet clearings he passes through now, and sit until he was numb with cold. Every breath burned fiercely through his chest as he sat there, waiting for some signal to go home and warm himself by the fire. Sometimes he could only stand it for ten minutes or so - sometimes he sat out in the cold for over an hour, just waiting for a sign from the universe that it was worth warming up for.

He can remember it like yesterday, the night he went out in the woods and sat until he heard a quiet yelp from the treeline. He had rushed forward to help - stupid, especially out here, but there was no canny predator waiting for him. Instead, a young husky pup shivered in the snow cover, nearly frozen and barely able to keep her eyes open. Scott picked her up and rushed her home, determined to save her. If he hadn’t -

He doesn’t think about that. He doesn’t think about life without Vesta in the same way he used to not think about life without Stiles, without his mom, without his pack.

They pass through the trees slowly, careful of their haul. Stiles doesn’t wriggle or shift, doesn’t seem inclined to talk over the motor. Instead, they make their trek as quietly as they can, even the motor sound dampened by the falling snow that picks up as they near the cabin. At the sound of their approach, Vesta’s head pops up in a window, and Scott can’t help but grin at her. They have a long evening ahead of unloading supplies and putting things away, but it feels good to be coming home from a day with friends, Stiles at his back and Vesta at the door.

They struggle to get the packages inside out of the falling snow, Vesta’s happy barking the backdrop to much huffing and puffing. By the time the supplies are put away and a modest dinner has been eaten, Scott’s exhausted from their little day trip. Still, something tugs at him to sit on the sofa next to Stiles when he’d normally head to bed.

“So,” he starts, delicately. “Steven Hunter, hm?”

Stiles looks at him sideways, and Scott gets it - him, of all people, asking for secrets is nearly unbelievable. He raises both hands in supplication. “You said you’d tell me. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

Stiles waits for another second before shrugging. “It’s my fake name. I used it on the road with Braeden, because I figured if anybody had information about you they were far more likely to tell Steven Hunter, recognized mercenary, than Stiles Stilinski, known useless best friend of the True Alpha.”

“You aren’t useless,” Scott says instantly, but mostly to give him time to recover. _Recognized mercenary_ isn’t what he wanted to hear, though he has to admit he expected it. All the money, the casual way Stiles talks about guns and traveling, the fact that he’s been here for over a week without calling his dad - it all makes sense, if Scott puts the pieces together. He just hasn’t really wanted to put the pieces together.

“So when you were traveling with Braeden…”

“‘A girl’s gotta eat,’ Scotty,” Stiles says back, sad smile on his face. “Working with Braeden was the only way to survive and still find you.”

“You went to college though,” Scott argues, though he knows it’s useless - these aren’t decisions Stiles can make over again, or asked for his input on to begin with. These are decisions Stiles made because Scott disappeared, and now they both have to live with it. He wrings his hands, bitterness overwhelming him for the first time in a long time, and he thinks he might cry if crying was a thing he still did.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, soft and weirdly soothing. “It’s fine Scott. I’m here now, aren’t I? I found you. Right?”

“Right,” Scott nods, numbness replacing everything else in him almost instantly. Stiles shifts on the couch and pulls Scott down, down, until his head is in Stiles’ lap and he’s curled up facing the fire, dancing in the fireplace. Stiles’ fingers find his hair, and it’s barely a minute before Scott’s eyes are drifting closed.

“I found you,” he hears, just on the edge of sleep. “Everything’s different now.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to LC for the quick read-through before posting tonight. I hope you guys will be satisfied with this one!

“Let me take a look at that hand,” Stiles says, a few days after their trip to town. Scott looks up from where he’s been reading near the fireplace, sprawled out on the rug.

“What?” he asks, mind still on the book. It’s one of his favorites - a fantasy novel about a knight and his companions searching for dragons. Scott likes to imagine he’s on the same quest, battling the elements for something noble and grand, rather than just getting firewood or searching out syrup trees. His life was never quite enough of a fairy tale.

“Let me check your hand out,” Stiles says again, flexing his own to demonstrate.

“Oh! Um, alright.” Scott pushes up off the floor, favoring his left hand just a little. It’s mostly healed under the bandage, but it won’t hurt to let Stiles see that. Any excuse for them to talk without the strain of Stiles’ revelation between them is a good one.

Things haven’t been tense, necessarily, but there’s an acknowledgement in the air now that wasn’t there before - Stiles has given up a secret, part of himself he kept guarded from most people behind false names and invented stories. He hasn’t asked for anything in return, yet, but Scott knows it’s coming. He knows eventually he’ll have to reveal himself just as fully to Stiles, and everything in him chafes at the knowledge.

Mostly because he knows once he tells Stiles why he’s here, why he has to stay, there’s no chance Stiles won’t be twice as determined to get home. Not because he’d want to leave Scott, but because he’d have hope - hope they could fix this, where Scott knows there is none.

He follows Stiles into the bathroom, trying not to show how grim he feels as Stiles sets out the first aid kit.

“I really don’t think you’ll need all that,” he starts, but Stiles interrupts him.

“Why don’t you let me decide what I’ll need, hm?”

It’s a simple enough question but it feels loaded, so Scott acquiesces and offers his hand without further comment. Stiles unwinds the bandage slowly, like he’s afraid the gauze will stick to Scott’s tender healing skin, but it comes free without even a tug. Underneath, there’s a faint pink line where the knife slipped through the skin, right between the heart and the head line on his palm.

“See?” he can’t help but ask. “Mostly healed.”

Stiles hums neutrally, bending Scott’s hand in his own in careful stretches. Some of them burn, like when Stiles presses all Scott’s fingers down to meet his palm, but most of the time there’s just a mild stretch of the new skin. Either way, no blood bubbles to the surface.

“You’ll be sure to wear gloves if we go out?” Stiles asks quietly. “To protect it.”

“I’ll wear gloves anyway,” Scott assures him. “Otherwise my fingers will fall off.”

“Well, that’s true I guess.”

They stand there, hands outstretched between them. Scott should pull away, should let it drop, but the warmth of Stiles’ hand is too much to resist. Instead, he speaks.

“Do you want to go somewhere tonight?”

It’s silly - something he’d have asked back in Beacon Hills. _Want to go to the movies? Want to go by the Burger Shack?_ It’s not something he says here, now, miles from a town that has neither of those things anyway. Still, he knows immediately what they’ll do if Stiles says -

“Yes, yeah, let’s go somewhere.”

“Okay.” Scott smiles, genuine gladness welling up in him. “We’ll go somewhere.”

 

The snowmobile is so noisy compared to the forest around them that Scott wonders for a moment if something’s wrong with the engine. Once they’re in the cover of the trees, though, the noise is muffled again and he stops worrying. The cold is biting, but he and Stiles both have on heavy snow suits and parkas layered over their clothes, tough boots and several layers of socks on their feet, and at least two pair of gloves each. It’s dark out already, the sun long gone after its short stay in the sky, but the headlight on the snowmobile illuminates everything well enough. Scott could probably get them to this place by memory in the dark anyway, if he really wanted to try it.

It’s his favorite place in the whole territory - a tall hill rising up out of the trees, sparsely covered in firs itself, and at its peak a clearing from which you can see for miles around.  It’s a thirty minute ride, but Scott doesn’t mind. It gives him time to get his thoughts in order, and to enjoy the feeling of Stiles wrapped around him from behind.

After days of weird tension between them, everything seems to have melted like new snow out here in the air. Stiles was a mercenary, like Braeden. Stiles did things he needed to do in order to find Scott - and it worked. Had Scott been there - but he wasn’t, and he doesn’t let himself feel guilty about that. He left to protect Stiles, to protect _everyone_. What they did after couldn’t be helped.

It’s all so much water under the bridge now, Scott reasons. Stiles apparently has more money than he knows what to do with, and he knows where to find Scott if he needs him. He won’t have to go back to that life unless he really wants to, and Scott has never been very good at talking him out of things Stiles really wants to do anyway.

The slope of the hill up ahead pulls Scott’s brain away from that thought and pushes it toward something _he_ really wants - something he hopes Stiles wants too. Nerves roil in his belly as they begin the ascent up the shallower side of the hill. He isn’t sure Stiles has ever seen anything like this before - if he’d spent the better part of the last ten years in Mexico, though, it’s almost assured that he hasn’t.

“Are we almost there?” Stiles asks, voice raised over the motor.

“Top of the hill,” Scott tells him. Stiles wraps even more tightly around him, knees at Scott’s hips and arms clasped around Scott’s middle. He can’t feel Stiles’ body through the layers of clothes they’re both wearing, but he imagines that he’s warmer, knowing Stiles is at his back. They make their way up the hill slowly, snowmobile cutting a path through crunchy snow, winding around the occasional tree. They thin out as Scott nears the top, until all he can see up ahead is the bright gleam of snow under the light of the full moon. He doesn’t itch, doesn’t feel even the faintest desire to run wildly about or look for his pack, though he does feel a strange emptiness inside when he realizes that. He shakes it off, though, instead focusing on the other lights in the sky - tonight’s main event.

He parks the snowmobile at the very crest of the hill and turns sideways on the seat, encouraging Stiles to do the same. The abrupt end to the motor noise leaves a ghostly echo of sound all around them, and then silence so heavy he can almost feel it.

“Take your helmet off so you can see,” Scott says, voice hushed. Stiles’ helmet has a visor to keep the snow out of his face, but he knows as soon as Stiles takes it off -

“Oh my god,” he says, “Oh my god, Scotty it’s - this is - oh my god, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Scott laughs, spilling over with gladness at Stiles’ response. Above them, the night sky is lit up with gorgeous spools of color. Greens, pinks, yellows, and purples play gently over the dark velvety blackness of the night sky, dotted with stars brighter than Scott’s ever seen anywhere else. It’s breathtaking to watch, and for a long moment they do, just looking up in awe at the aurora above them. Stiles puts his hand up, and Scott understands instantly.

“The lights look so close,” he says quietly. They look just out of reach, like you could cup your hands and catch a palmful of liquid color full of bright shining stars.

“It all does,” Stiles says, voice reverent. Scott’s never heard him sound exactly like this. “It’s - Scott, it’s so beautiful.”

Stiles watches with his face upturned, features touched by the night lights, the moon and stars, the brilliant aurora - they highlight the slight upturn of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the stars in his golden eyes. There’s so little of his skin visible between his knit beanie and the scarf that comes up over his chin, but what of it Scott can see looks cool as marble, reflecting back the moon’s light just like snow. Scott can feel himself staring, not at the glories of the northern lights, but at the one lit by them. His heart pounds raucously in his chest, his throat dry and lips chapped. He licks them unconsciously, skin stinging as he wets it, and the small movement must catch Stiles’ eye, or maybe he just feels Scott looking, because in half a breath he’s looking back - looking just as starry-eyed as before, but this time at Scott instead of the sky.

Scott takes a deep breath, ready to tell Stiles the thing he’s tried to say a hundred times since that moment in the snow, but he’s cut off suddenly by the press of Stiles’ lips to his own. They’re just as chapped and cold, but Stiles’ breath is warm on his face, and Scott’s heart is racing, his hands sweating through two pairs of gloves. He starts to pull away, but Stiles takes Scott’s face in both his hands and kisses him again, hotter and more open, until all Scott can feel or see or know is Stiles’ mouth on his, Stiles’ hands on him, Stiles’ breath in his lungs.

When they finally break apart, it’s to heaving breaths that fog between them instantly. For a long moment, neither of them speak, letting the stillness of the night surround them. Stiles breaks the silence, just like he breaks all Scott’s silences now, just like he broke the silence that was Scott’s entire life by coming back into it.

“I’m so fucking glad it isn’t just me,” he says, and Scott has to take a full second to parse it. Even after the kisses, it’s hard to believe that his feelings are returned so abundantly.

“You mean, you…” he starts, and then stalls out. “I mean, I... that is, I feel -”

“I love you,” Stiles says, no longer hushed. He pays no mind to the stillness of the forest, wipes it away with his words and lights Scott up just like the aurora above them. “I love you Scott. Why else would I have worked so hard to find you?”

Scott shrugs, baffled but glad - so glad it hurts, so glad his eyes fill with tears even as a small laugh tumbles from his mouth.

“Maybe you’re just really bad at making new friends,” he suggests.

Stiles laughs too, a sweet bell sound. “You’re not wrong. But that wasn’t why - or that wasn’t the only reason.”

“I love you too,” Scott says, heart in his throat. It hurts to be so honest, to let the words out this way with no protection from the bitter cold. Stiles is there, though, pulls him close and kisses him again without hesitation, warm and soft and sweet. It’s everything Scott wanted, everything he could have dreamed of if he let himself dream.

“C’mon,” Stiles says when they finally pull apart again. “Let’s get home. This is pretty but I’m freezing and I can think of much more romantic places we could kiss.”

“Much more romantic than underneath the northern lights?” Scott asks, dubious.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and waggles his eyebrows. “Like your giant bathtub.”

Scott has no answer for that except for the key in the snowmobile’s ignition.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with me on this one folks! I just finished the busiest season of the year at work, and did three commissions besides, so I'm happy to have anything to post at all right now. I hope this little interlude brings some much-needed plot to these big goofballs.

“That’s the kettle,” Scott says, but he doesn’t want to pull away from Stiles’ mouth, so it’s more of a muffled jumble of sounds than any actual words. He kisses Stiles again, and again, and then the kettle screeches louder and he can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he grumbles, lifting himself out of Stiles’ lap and putting his bare feet on the cool floor. It’s beautiful, this new routine they’ve fallen into: wake up, kiss, have breakfast, kiss, do chores, kiss. Scott wonders if his lips were designed for anything but kissing, with the way Stiles is constantly catching him around the waist and pulling him in for contact.

For now, though, the kettle is screeching.

He pulls it off the heat and goes to get out the cups, but then he’s spinning around with Stiles’ hands on his hips and being backed against the counter, a big smile on Stiles’ face.

“The kettle’s done,” Stiles explains, before dipping in for another kiss. He’s just a hair taller than Scott, a late growth spurt pushing him over the edge, and it’s nice to have to tilt his face just that little bit up to meet Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ kisses are soft and sweet or insistent and demanding, there’s very little in between. These are demanding; pressing Scott against the counter until he finally pushes himself up to sit on it, making space for Stiles between his legs. It feels forbidden, like they’re teenagers making out after school before their parents get home. Stiles sucks gently at Scott’s bottom lip, bringing it into his mouth and it sends a thrill up Scott’s spine, makes him squirm on the counter.

“Stiles -” he gasps, a little light-headed from the combination of kissing and no coffee.

“I know,” Stiles agrees, smug and certain of himself. It’s something Scott’s noticed that’s changed. When they were young, Stiles seemed surprised every time he kissed someone; now he slips into Scott’s space, into his mouth, without a second’s hesitation. Scott does his best not to be jealous, comforting himself that right here, right now, Stiles is under _his_ hands and no one else’s.

When they finally break apart the kettle’s almost cool enough to drink from on its own, and Scott doesn’t bother with coffee or tea. He pours orange juice from the concentrate mix Stiles made the day before and scrambles eggs in his cast iron skillet with a lump of butter. Nothing about the little kitchen has changed, but the entire atmosphere feels different – different smells, different foods, different feelings as he scrapes eggs onto two plates and pulls bacon out of the oven.

“So what’s the plan for today?” Stiles asks, swiping a piece of bacon from the cooling rack and tossing it comically from one hand to the other, burning his fingers with the grease. Scott laughs and pushes him out of the way, moving the rest of the slices to a plate to cool using a fork. One slice goes to Vesta, sitting patiently by Scott’s feet as he makes their plates, and she chomps it down in one quick bite before whining for - and receiving - another one.

“Well, we’ve got food,” Scott says, gesturing toward the packed pantry and fridge, “And the cabin doesn’t need any repairs after the last storm, so that’s good. Now we’re down to my favorite chore of all.”

“Which one’s that?”

“Cutting wood.” Scott grins and sets Stiles’ plate down on the table, beckoning him to sit. “Eat up. Today you’re getting lumberjack lessons.”

 

 

“Okay, now you hold it like this,” Scott demonstrates, wrapping himself around Stiles from behind to grip the axe in both of their hands. It’s not exactly sexy with six layers of clothing between them at almost every point, but Scott is put in mind of those high school movies where the guy tries to teach the girl to hold a bat or a golf club in just this same way. He smiles to himself – he doesn’t think Stiles would care very much for being compared to a girl in a teen rom com.

“Picture the wood in your mind, with the axe going right where you want to hit it. Are you imagining it? Now, bring it down hard, right in the center, got it?” Scott asks, and guides the axe down. It’s harder than it looks and they’ve been trying for an hour already. Stiles was ready to give up about forty minutes ago.

“Yeah, got it,” Stiles says, looking at the axe stuck in the stump, inches away from the piece of wood they were trying to cleave. “In theory.”

“One more time,” Scott says, and Stiles turns and frowns at him from under his beanie. The soft plaid of the flannel under his coat sticks up, brushing against his cheek, and Scott feels an overwhelming desire to kiss that exact spot.

“You said one more time the last two times. I suck at this. I can never compete with the lumberjack boyfriend I was imagining you had the entire way up here.”

“You were imagining me with a lumberjack boyfriend?” Scott can’t help but laugh, especially when he sees the flush deepen on Stiles’ cheeks.

“Self-flagellation,” Stiles says shortly, embarrassed, and Scott has to look down to hide his grin.

“Only one lumberjack boyfriend I want,” he says, cringing at how corny it sounds. He picks up the axe and presses it into Stiles’ hands again. “One more time.”

Scott squares up behind Stiles again. He puts his gloved hands over Stiles’ on the handle of the axe, draws it up, and pictures the wood in the back of his mind, imagines exactly the place they need to hit it to knock the piece into two. The resounding thunk of the axe in the wood is slightly different than it has been the other twenty times they’ve tried, and Scott looks just in time to see the two pieces of firewood fall to the snow on either side of the stump. Stiles drops the axe and turns with a bright smile on his face, that disbelieving look he always seems to get when something goes his way, and then Scott’s wrapped in a hug so tight he can barely breathe. Stiles lifts him off the ground a little, his toes scrabbling for purchase on the frozen ground, and Scott laughs loud enough that it echoes through the barren wood.

“I did it!”

“You did it!” Scott agrees.

“Take that, lumberjack boyfriend,” Stiles says to some invisible suitor he imagines as competition. He can’t know that there’s been no one, not since -

“Now that you’ve got it,” Scott says, changing the subject, “Let’s do it again.”

Their joy doesn’t last long.

“Oh my god,” Stiles complains, after about the fourth limb he’s processed into a more or less usable stack of firewood. “This is – this is hell. Why do you do this? My arms are going to fall off.”

“I sort of have to do it,” Scott laughs. “Or else that toasty fire you like so much back home won’t be there.”

“I can’t feel my face,” Stiles continues, but Scott ignores him in order to load the chopped firewood onto the sled behind the snowmobile.

“Come on, there are probably more fallen limbs a little further in,” Scott says, straddling the snowmobile with the ease of practice. Stiles settles in behind him with less ease, but once he’s wrapped around Scott from behind it feels almost normal for him to be there - not like a very new addition to Scott’s life, but a constant. They go slowly, so as not to overturn the sled on the uneven ground out in the forest. The firewood’s tied down, but Scott’s ended up with a sled on its side more than once, and it’s not an experience he wants to repeat any time soon.

The boughs of the trees bow low with snow and ice, icicles hanging off of the ends of the limbs. Stiles reaches a hand out to break one off and shows it off to Scott: pine needles, perfectly captured in slick, glossy ice clear enough it could be glass. The sun is blindingly bright against the snow, but under the shade of the pines it’s easy to tell the light will fade quickly, and leave them in the dark again. Scott doesn’t want to get too far from home, not when they only have one flashlight on the sled, but there are fewer fallen branches than he expected after the last storm. He has to go further into the wood, off any sort of trail to find them on the ground.

“There,” Stiles says above the sound of the motor, and points at a tree with a few broken limbs at its foot. Scott turns them toward it, but something about the tree looks… off. He kills the snowmobile a few paces away and slings his helmet onto the ground, the sound muffled by the snow. He sinks into the unpacked powder, but not very far - underneath, the ground has already frozen and the layers of snow have become strong ice. Scott approaches the tree warily, all his senses on high alert as he examines the way the trunk is bent in a little. There are claw marks up and down the trunk from a giant paw, and it’s easy to see that the fallen limbs were pulled down by some force other than their own weight.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, coming up behind Scott to look at the tree. “That can’t be from wolves.”

“A bear,” Scott says quietly. “One that probably has a den not too far from here. They don’t come out often once the snow falls.”

“A bear?” Stiles asks, voice going a little pitchy with anxiety. “A - a bear, seriously Scott? And we’re out here, and I didn’t even bring my -”

He cuts off abruptly but Scott knows already what he meant. _I didn’t even bring my gun_.

“You might want to bring it from now on,” Scott says with an unhappy sigh. “Come on - we should get out of its territory before it decides to come back and grab a snack.”

“Bears don’t generally want anything to do with people, though, right?” Stiles asks, a little fear in his voice. Scott thinks of the newspapers, the bear attacks he’s seen on the rise as humanity spreads out into the forest and encroaches on territory that’s always been wild.

“Like I said,” he says simply, grabbing his helmet out of the snow. “We should get out of here.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed description of a panic attack as it's happening in this chapter. Please take care of yourselves babes.

He should have expected the first fight sooner than this, considering it’s Stiles, but he didn’t. Stupidly, he’d gotten so caught up in being happy that he almost forgot the thing he can almost always feel hovering on his heels, ready to catch him if he slips. It comes to a head a week into November.

“You want me to _what_?”

“Just call her,” Stiles says, holding out the sat phone like it’s no big deal that he dug it out, dialed Scott’s mom’s number, did everything but hit “Call”.

“Just call her,” Scott repeats, stomach clenching. “Just - after ten years, just _call_ her, no big deal, just to say hi.”

“Saying ‘I’m not dead’ might not hurt,” Stiles says, and tries to push the phone into Scott’s hands.

“She knows I’m not dead,” Scott says, pushing it back.

“How do you know that?” Stiles asks. “I’ve talked to her much more recently than you have. I told her I was coming up here, that we had a lead, but she didn’t even get excited this time. She needs to hear from you, Scott. You can’t just  fall off the face of the earth and expect your mom to know you’re okay.”

_Who’s okay?_ Scott thinks rather savagely, but instead he says, “I can’t call her, and especially not from my own phone.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Scott repeats, dumbfounded. “Why - why go to all the trouble of hiding if I’m just going to call my mom and give away - do you know how likely it is they have some sort of surveillance on her?”

Scott stops, breath tight in his chest. Panic starts to overwhelm him, even thinking about _they_ , them, the reason he’s here. He gropes for the the back of the couch to hold him up, knees suddenly a little weak as his thoughts start spiraling. He can just see it - he calls his mom just to tell her hello, tell her he’s alive, and then in the depths of winter when no one can come to help him, they find him here in the cabin. They’d kill Stiles immediately, they’d kill them both, they’d use his power -

“Who’s ‘they’?” Stiles demands, but at least he sets the phone aside. Melissa’s number still blinks on the screen, but Scott ignores it. Tries to ignore Stiles too, though that works about as well as it always has. “Who is ‘they’ and why are you hiding from them?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Scott tries. He can feel himself shutting down already, shutting Stiles out. His vision narrows as he walks mechanically from the living room into the kitchen to get a glass of water. If he can get it down, that usually keeps the panic from getting too overwhelming. Most of the time.

“Don’t - don’t worry about it?” Stiles sounds a little screechy, but Scott can’t worry about him now, not when every breath hurts more to take. Blood whooshes loudly through his head, leaving him dizzy. It feels like an asthma attack and not, like something  sitting on his chest, crushing the air out of him. He doesn’t keep an inhaler on hand anymore, not since he realized just how easy they were to turn against him, but he doesn’t really need it for this. He just needs to drink his water, to take a shower, to -

“Are you crying?” he hears, and then Stiles’ hands are on his shoulders, turning him around. “Scott, are you - are you okay?”

Scott blinks, and his vision clears of the tears in his eyes. They run down his cheeks instead, hot and wet, not unlike the bath he’ll need before he feels whole again. He shakes his head, mute, but it’s unnecessary. Stiles is already gathering him close, pressing a kiss to the side of Scott’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. He shouldn’t be. He _should_ ask questions, get to the bottom of the problem - that’s what Stiles does, it’s what Stiles has always done. But the bottom of this problem is a gaping maw that Scott can’t ever get away from, so he shoves it as far as he can into the back of his mind, behind a closed door with a lock and key, one he never turns to open.

Scott follows where Stiles leads, stumbling toward the bedroom with heaving breaths. Knowing Stiles isn’t going to press anymore helps ease the knot in his chest, but it’s too late to avoid the attack that’s already started. Vesta whines, pawing at the floor as she watches them, but she doesn’t come close enough to touch. Instead, it’s Stiles who bundles Scott into his bed and climbs up after him.

The scent of his pillow is comforting. The fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, and Stiles’ hand is warm on his side as he breathes in to the count of seven, and back out through his nose.

“With me,” Stiles says quietly. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven - Out, two, three, four, five.”

Scott follows his breathing the best he can, tears still spilling down his flushed face. Coming back to himself is always embarrassing, but with Stiles here everything is extra humiliating. He tries not to think about it, to not think about anything at all - just the way the air flows through his body, helps him feel his hands again, take stock of the slight shiver he’s still exhibiting.

“You cold?” Stiles asks.

“Yes and no,” is his answer. It’s the only answer he can come up with. He is, achingly cold down to his bones despite the burning of his face, the tingling in his fingers and toes, the hot ache in his stomach. It’s not a cold Stiles can help with though.

“I think I need…” he starts, but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t want to offend when Stiles has been working so hard to help him calm down, but for some things he needs space, and time, and little traditions that keep him going.

“Whatever you need Scotty,” Stiles promises.

“I think I need to take a bath.”

 

The bathtub seemed like a stupid expense when Mr. Baker offered it up.

“My old lady, she wants one with them jets in it,” he had said, motioning toward the hunk of ivory porcelain in the back of his pick-up. “I’ll help ya install it if you want. I know the Lacklutters had wanted a tub but they’re hard to come by this far outta the city, and Bill never could scrape together the money to have one delivered. There should be a place for it though - it was in the plans.”

Scott had noticed the big empty space in the bathroom with a pipe sticking up out of the floor, and wondered, but he’d never spoken to the Lacklutters themselves, just Mr. Baker, so he couldn’t very well ask them.

A tub made sense though. A tub wouldn’t be terrible.

Now, the bathtub is just about his favorite thing in the world, and one of the few comforts he’s allowed himself in the cabin. The shivering has calmed down some, but he gives an undignified little twitch as he starts the water, piping hot, and puts his hand beneath the faucet to test it. His clothes already smell of fear sweat, and he pulls them off quickly in the relative warmth of the bathroom. He says a little prayer of thanks to Mr. Lacklutter, that he’d had the money and the foresight to install radiant heating in the bathroom, and another to Mr. Baker for letting him pay out the tub in installments.

Scott avoids the mirror as he walks back and forth, waiting for the tub to fill. His reflection doesn’t interest him. He knows what he looks like in the wake of a panic attack: red-nosed, red-eyed, an odd combination of flush and pallor that leaves him looking very little like himself. Instead, he focuses on the little jar of aromatic salts on the counter, scooping out two level scoops and pouring them slowly into the tub one at a time. The scent of lavender rises up to meet him, and Scott starts feeling better just knowing what’s to come.

He sinks into the tub up to his chin, head resting back against a rolled-up towel that also serves to keep his hair mostly dry. His feet rest on the other end, hot water soothing the sores that his new winter boots have rubbed and the aches that panic causes. The shallow slope of porcelain under his back is perfect, keeps him relaxed and upright even when he occasionally falls asleep in the water - which has happened often enough that he supposes he should find it embarrassing.

He doesn’t.

A click of a nearby remote turns on the simple sound machine he ordered last summer and the sounds of a thunderstorm roll in - just like ones he used to hear back home in California during the very short rainy season. His hands find the cool mesh of a loofah, drag it gently across his skin. He closes his eyes, lets himself sink deeply into the moment.

Slowly, one by one, Scott feels his muscles relax. He concentrates on the warmth of the water, the buoyancy of his limbs. His chest aches and his legs still feel like they might wobble if he stood up too quickly, but bit by bit, his body is suffused with warmth from the water, and Scott starts to feel more like himself.

In between the cracks of thunder he hears a low rustling sound, a buzzing, and then the unmistakable trill of Stiles’ handheld gaming console coming to life in the living room. It should seem odd, having another person’s sounds in his home after years of living without them, but it isn’t - he’s grown far too used to it already, having Stiles here with him. A quiet yelp makes him grin, cover his face with a wet hand and laugh into it in a way he doesn’t remember doing since he was a child - since he felt like a child.

“Everything okay?” he yells, pausing the sound machine.

“Peachy!” Stiles shouts back, voice carrying despite the door closed between them.

“Hit your head again?”

A long pause, and then, “Yeah. Yes. Yes I did. Thanks. Couldn’t have gotten a regular couch with regular cushioned arms, huh?”

“Nope,” Scott says, laughing.

The sound of rain floods in again.

He is warm. He is safe. He’s happy to be alive.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please just keep in mind - the Scott in this fic is traumatized and incredibly depressed. His emotional reactions mirror my own experiences with depression, and I've tried to make them as true to life as possible without being triggering. In any case, please take care of yourselves and I hope the fluff makes up for the angst. :)

Scott’s lips buzz with the feeling of Stiles against them. They’re puffy, swollen from kissing, sucking at Stiles’ neck where the skin prickles with stubble he hasn’t shaved off yet. He lets Stiles push him down, down against the soft mattress. Stiles holds his wrists as they kiss, and it feels like belonging to someone again, like being safe and -

“Stiles -” he whines as Stiles works a mark into the skin over his collar, the bone standing out in relief in the dim firelight.

“Nobody but us to see it,” Stiles reminds him, and sucks another just higher. He can feel the skin go hot, purpling under Stiles’ mouth, his teeth and tongue driving Scott crazy with want. It’s like coming in from the cold everywhere they touch, Stiles’ skin warm and rosy against his own, his breath hot and his mouth too fast for Scott to keep up with.

The sun doesn’t rise for so long now, and their morning routine has come to be something like this. They wake up, Scott from his bed and Stiles from the sofa; they eat breakfast, teasing and flirting the whole time; they find ways to touch, to taste, to fit into each others’ space until they’re here, with Scott arching on the bed under Stiles’ body, nothing but warm flannel between them.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks, slipping a hand up Scott’s shirt, rubbing gently at his chest. Stiles watches him with eyes too sharp for the moment, always does, every time they move past one of the little boundaries Scott’s set up for himself from the beginning.

At first it was just kissing. They’d kiss standing up, kiss sitting on the sofa, kiss with Scott on the counter and Stiles between his legs, kiss with Vesta watching from the other side of the room, kiss outside with the snow falling around them. Stiles kisses with his whole body, kisses like he’s surprised, kisses like he wants to savor every second of Scott’s skin against his mouth, kisses like he -

Scott tips his head back, offering up his neck and chest to the altar of Stiles’ lips. “It’s good, please -”

Now it’s touching, sucking, rubbing - things Scott does, or did, used to do, thought about doing, before he went into self-induced exile. Every step of the way his meager resistance crumbles, his fear of letting go, of letting Stiles, gives way in the face of want so acute he can taste it. Stiles pushes his shirt up and off, over his head, exposing Scott to the slight chill of the room. Even with the fire going, it’s cool by the window, and his nipples peak almost instantly. Stiles notices - always notices, he’s always noticing, and someday he’s going to notice that Scott loves him so much more than he should, so much more than is healthy or good. He used to love so normally, before his heart got twisted up; now he feels every kiss like it’s the last kiss he’ll ever get, tries to keep them all against his skin as long as he can before he can’t take it anymore.

“Chilly?” Stiles asks, silly grin on his face, before he bends down to take one of Scott’s peaked nipples into his mouth. He soothes the flesh with his tongue, warm and wet, makes it ache deep inside him as he sucks softly, drags his teeth against Scott’s skin. He’s so careful, so gentle, so unlike the boy Scott knew before and at the same time completely unchanging. Ten years feels like it never passed when he’s on his back with Stiles on top of him, laying between his legs.

Stiles moves, crawling up to kiss him again, slotting their hips together so he can feel how hard Stiles is through his pajama bottoms. It’s so hot, knowing he gets Stiles hot, knowing he has this effect on any other person anymore, with his long hair and unshaven face and twelve odd layers of clothing at any given time. It’s hot, and he loves it, but at the same time something in him jerks shut at the feeling, an unnamed fear rising up in his gut, causing him to still under Stiles’ wandering hands.

Stiles notices. He’s always noticing. He pulls away before Scott can even apologize, settles back down on the bed next to him breathing a little hard, lips wet and red.

“I’m sor-”

“So,” Stiles interrupts. “What are we going to do today?”

Stiles smiles, grabbing his shirt from where Stiles tossed it and pulling it back on over his head. He’ll need to get actually dressed later, but for now he’s just warding off the chill as his body goes back to normal, back to being not-kissed.

“I thought…” he says, and clears his throat before trying again. “I thought we might go sledding. If you want.”

“Sledding sounds great,” Stiles agrees. Scott expects him to push, to ask what changed his mind, to be the information sponge he knows Stiles can be when he wants to be, but the question doesn’t come - it never comes, not since the first night.

 

_“Are you sure it’s not me?” Stiles asked, brow furrowed._

_“Really sure, the most sure,” Scott assured him._

_“Then it’s fine. We go as slow as you need to go. Just promise to always tell me when.”_

 

The snow is packed tight under his feet as Scott walks out to the snowmobile. The sled’s hooked up on the back, for once not loaded down with various purchases or firewood. The other sled he was working on, the bigger one, is still in pieces in the living room, all swept neatly into the corner. He wishes it was ready to use, but his old store-bought one is good too, and it’s already been tested in the snow.

“Have you been sledding before?” he asks, searching his memory for any mention of Stiles going to some wintry locale on vacation, or to visit family. Nothing comes to mind, but then he doesn’t really expect it to - it’s been a very long time.

“No,” Stiles shrugs, adjusting his scarf around the opening of his thick, padded snowsuit. He looks a bit like a bright yellow marshmallow, though Scott doesn’t tell him so. He’s sure he looks just as silly in his red parka. “I’m a quick learner though, and I’ve always been exceptionally good at falling downhill. Can’t be too hard, right?”

“It isn’t hard,” Scott confirms. “As long as you steer right to begin with. Otherwise you run into trees.”

“Well, let’s try to avoid that, why don’t we?” Stiles says dryly, climbing up onto the snowmobile. Scott climbs on in front of him, settling between Stiles’ thighs in a way that makes his mouth go dry despite the layers. Not for the first time he kicks himself for not just forcing his way through this… hang-up that keeps him from being able to be with Stiles the way he wants. He pulls his helmet on a little rougher than usual, and winces when it catches his ear the wrong way.

The ride to the hill is quicker today than it seemed the night he took Stiles to see the aurora. He keeps his eyes peeled for signs of bears, or any wildlife at all, but the only thing he notices is a few trees scraped by horns - a buck or a moose, maybe, he thinks. He’s used to noticing things like that in the forest now, the little signs of life that seem to scream their existence after the world is blanketed in snow. The first year or two he was in the cabin, the woods felt so quiet that sometimes he was afraid it would swallow him up and no one would ever know the difference. Sometimes he wanted it to. Now, though, he recognizes the ways life makes itself known, proves to him over and over again that he isn’t the only creature lost in the world of white.  

His thoughts keep him busy as the trees start to thin along the trail, until the hill rises up to meet them. It’s steep on one side, but the other is shallower - a nice bunny slope for his sledding novice. Scott pulls them up to the crest and parks the snowmobile, the sled dragging along behind it. There are ruts in the snow where he pulled up, but they won’t go down that side anyway; the sides of the hill with clean, fresh powder will be perfect for their little venture.

“You want to watch me go down first?” he asks, untying the sled and coiling the extra rope for the drive home.

“You just sit on the sled and push yourself down, right?” Stiles asks, eyes crinkling. “How hard can it be?”

“Well -” Scott starts, but Stiles is already pulling the sled away toward the side of the hill. Scott watches as he sits down, pulling his legs in and crossing them, and then pushes himself down the shallow side, sled zipping across the snow. It comes to a stop several feet past the bottom of the hill, Stiles’ gloved hands dug into the snow to help slow it down. Scott calls down to him, “Fun?”

“Sure,” Stiles yells back. “Where’s the ski-lift?”

Scott points to Stiles himself, and laughs as Stiles mimes struggling up the hill, sled behind him.

They spend the better part of the sunlight taking turns going down the hill on the sled, and then trudging back up with wobbly legs and cold noses. Scott unpacks the hot chocolate he brought in thermoses and they sit on the snowmobile drinking it, the rich, warm flavor suffusing comfort through their bodies.

“Well, did you have fun?” Scott asks finally, the sun starting to lower in the sky. They need to get back soon, or they’ll be driving home in the dark.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looking like a boy with bright eyes, pink cheeks, and red mouth, lips chapped from the cold and then warmed by the hot chocolate. “Yeah, it was great Scotty.”

The old nickname always fills Scott with a certain longing - a wish for days when homework and making the lacrosse team were the most of his problems. Those days are barely even a memory now, and Scott shakes off the nostalgia before it can ruin this - a nearly perfect day, all on its own.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he says, flushing a little as he leans over to give Stiles a kiss. Stiles’ mouth is warm but his nose is cold, pressed to Scott’s cheek, and it makes him giggle against Stiles’ lips.

“Seems like you had fun too,” Stiles grins when they break away. “But I’m not done yet. Don’t think I didn’t notice we were going down the kiddie slide all afternoon.”

Scott glances at the steep run on the other side of the hill. “You sure you can get the sled back up here?” he asks.

“No need. You take the snowmobile down, and I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Scott rolls his eyes at Stiles’ expert workaround, but he doesn’t disagree. He packs things up quickly, already sensing nightfall coming on soon, and drives down and around the hill, parking it a good bit away from where the steep side lets out. Stiles takes his time getting settled, holding onto the front of the sled with both hands and crossing his long legs in front of him, making a compact little form out of his lanky body. He pushes himself slowly over the lip of the hill, and Scott watches wide-eyed as the sled slips down the slope much faster than he’d expected.

Stiles doesn’t slow down, keeps picking up speed, until about fifteen feet from the bottom the sled jumps - hit a bump in the snow, maybe - and flies right out from under him. Stiles goes head over feet into the snow, rolling the rest of the way down the hill. By the time Scott realizes what’s happened, he’s already moving, running through the thick powder to get to Stiles where he’s laying, unmoving.

“Stiles?” he shouts, heart sunk into his gut. He forces his way through the snow, knees weak and trembling, until he gets to Stiles’ body - no, to _Stiles_. To Stiles.

“Stiles?” he asks again, falling to his knees next to Stiles and reaching for him even as Stiles groans and turns over in the snow, brow furrowed with pain.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, a little dazed, and then more coherently, “Scott, what’s wrong?”

“What - what do you -” Scott sniffs, and only then realizes he’s crying, fat tears rolling hot down his cheeks. He wipes at his face fiercely, embarrassed, but Stiles reaches for his hand and pulls it away.

“Those for me?” he asks, wincing as he pushes himself up.

“I thought you were hurt,” Scott says defensively, like he’s upset that Stiles isn’t. If Stiles isn’t. He hasn’t really had a moment to check.

“Well it didn’t feel great,” Stiles confirms, rubbing the back of his head. His hat was lost in the snow up the hill, and his ears are already red with cold.

“But you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Scotty, I’m okay,” Stiles says with a lopsided smile. The tears should stop, but instead they just come faster, the crushing fear falling on him all at once now that he knows Stiles is safe. Stiles wraps himself around Scott, rocking them gently from side to side as Scott cries, sobs wracking his whole body.

He didn’t think Stiles was hurt. For a second, the worst second he’s lived in years, he thought Stiles was _dead_. The world without Stiles flashed before his mind’s eye, leaving him breathless with grief. No Stiles to cook with him, no Stiles to play with Vesta in front of the fireplace, no Stiles to kiss him lovingly good night -

No Stiles to come back for him.

“I love you,” Scott hears himself saying, his voice choked and wet.

“I love you too,” Stiles says instantly. He pulls away, takes Scott’s face in both hands and kisses him, despite the way he sniffles and the tears gone cold on his cheeks. Stiles kisses him and holds him, and eventually the tears stop welling up from that deep place, leaving him exhausted and shivering instead.

“Come on,” Stiles says, wiping Scott’s face with gloved hands. “Let’s get home.”

Scott nods, words sticking in his throat. He doesn’t need to go anywhere to be home, not when home is wherever Stiles is.


	16. Chapter 16

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Again?” Stiles complains, dropping his controller into his lap.

“I told you I was practicing,” Scott laughs. The old tube TV they dragged up from the basement is wedged into an odd corner of the room, and Stiles pulled the rug over to sit on. It feels sweetly nostalgic, whipping Stiles’ tail in Mario Kart. He sips his hot cocoa, gone mostly cool by now, and nods toward the fireplace. “Want another log before I get ready for bed?”

Stiles looks at it consideringly, firelight playing over his face, making him look unfamiliar one second and gilded the next. It’s beautiful but also strange, the way the dancing shadows put extra dark circles under his eyes, or flatten the planes of his cheekbones, or highlight his upturned nose. Scott watches, rapt.

“I can add another if I need to,” he finally decides. “You gonna hit the showers?”

“Thinking about it,” Scott says, a little coy for no reason at all.

“You know,” Stiles starts, fluttering his eyelashes in a way that makes Scott’s breath catch in his chest. “We could take that shower together.”

“We could, huh?” Scott gets out without squeaking, barely.

“Yeah, I bet we’d both fit.”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, catching himself as he leans in for a kiss. He stops halfway to Stiles’ mouth, teasing. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t get very clean if you were in the shower with me.”

“Well,” Stiles shrugs, “That’s probably true.”

He leans forward the spare few inches necessary to press a sweet kiss to Scott’s mouth, tasting of chocolate and peppermint and the beeswax lipbalm he seems to never run out of. For a moment, everything is the soft press of lips together, the crackle of the fire in the fireplace, the smell of Stiles’ aftershave. Then Stiles pulls back and gives him a little shove.

“Go shower, mountain man,” he says, smiling softly. It’s a smile that Scott doesn’t see often - not a smirk or an ill-gotten grin, but an actual smile.

“If you really want to -” Scott starts, though his heart beats faster at the thought, and he’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Stiles shakes his head.

“Go on. I’m going to practice this round some more so I can beat you tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Scott goes about his nightly ritual, only slightly altered with Stiles around. He feeds Vesta and fills her water bowl once more. He takes a moment to pet her, remind her what a good girl she is and how much he loves her. Vesta licks his hand, whoofing quietly to show her appreciation.

“Be good,” Scott reminds her, and Vesta wags her tail in agreement before going to empty her food bowl.

He does the dishes, hands moving more by rote memorization of the plates and cups than anything else. He can’t stop thinking about Stiles’ kisses, the way his mouth tasted, the way his hands felt on Scott’s shoulders. He gets lost in thought, scrubbing at a plate until it shines in the sink, thinking of Stiles’ ample mouth on his neck, his chest, the insides of his thighs -

_Crash!_

The plate slips out of his hand and into the sink, startling all three of them.

“You okay buddy?” Stiles asks, all concern. Scott flushes uncomfortably warm and red, thinking about how he’d feel if Stiles knew what had distracted him so.

“Um, yeah, just slipped,” he says, and turns the water off. The rest of the dishes can wait for tomorrow, when he’s not so preoccupied.

Scott closes the bathroom door, still feeling Stiles’ concerned eyes on him. He strips mechanically, thinking about Stiles’ eyes on him in a different way - a pleased way. He looks in the mirror critically. His body hasn’t changed that much since high school, and he’s retained most of his muscle tone through the hard work of staying alive in the wilderness. There are scars, but mostly small ones that he can brush off without too much fuss. His beard is full and bushy, needs to be trimmed, and his hair is almost long enough now to put in a little ponytail at the top of his head. Overall, though, he doesn’t mind what he sees. He doesn’t think Stiles would mind seeing, either. Actually, he’s pretty sure Stiles wants to see, and badly.

Scott turns the shower on with that thought replaying over and over - _what if he saw me like this?_ Stripped down and bare, vulnerable. The spray of the shower does nothing to distract him as Scott lets himself be enveloped in the comfort of hot water. Instead, it simply amplifies everything he’s feeling. What if Stiles was in here with him? What if Stiles was taking up the extra space in the little shower stall, pressing Scott’s back against the cool tile as they kissed? What if Stiles held him under the water, rutted them together until -

Scott’s hand travels low on his belly, scratching blunt nails through the trail of hair below his belly button. It doesn’t itch; he’s just biding his time until his hand can drift lower, lower, to where his erection is starting to strain up against his pelvis. The first touch of his hand on the sensitive skin makes him groan softly, and he has to bite his lip to keep quiet. If Stiles heard him…

He moans again, louder this time, practically begging Stiles to hear - to come to the door and knock, to come looking for him. He strokes himself gently, enjoying the sensation as water cascades down his chest, over his abs. His head tips back, mouth open as he jerks himself slow like syrup sap in February. His hand lingers, feeling the pleasure throb and ache low in his belly as he teases himself, brings orgasm closer by inches. His head is full of Stiles: of the way Stiles nips at his lips when they kiss; of the way Stiles’ big hand stretches all the way across his waist; of the way Stiles curls around him when they make out, like he could protect Scott from whatever’s coming.

“Stiles - fuck,” he whispers to the four walls of the shower cubicle. He can picture it, Stiles coming into the room with concern written all over his features, stopping short when he sees Scott’s hand on his cock. The Stiles in his daydream opens the shower door and steps inside, naked and pale and cool against the warmth of Scott’s body as he presses Scott back against the wall. His kisses taste like tap water and beeswax, and Scott’s hand quickens on his erection, slicking faster over wet skin.

“You like it like this?” Stiles asks, pressing against him from chest to thigh. Scott has to look up just a bit at him, shorter out of his boots, smaller here in the shower. “You like me rubbing off on you, don’t you Scott?”

“Yeah - please -” Scott grunts, wrist working quicker. His eyes nearly roll back in his head, it feels so good.

“What else do you like?” Stiles asks, hands on Scott’s waist, holding him close. He likes that - likes to be held, likes to be kissed. He likes -

Scott pictures them out of the shower, safe and warm in the comfort of his bed. The blankets are drawn up around Stiles’ shoulders, making a little tent for Scott’s body underneath him. He wraps his legs around Stiles’ waist, drawing him closer, opening himself up for Stiles to fill in all his blank spaces. Everything feels good the way it always does in fantasies, but it’s even better when he remembers that Stiles wants this too - Stiles thinks about this too.

“You feel so good,” Stiles tells him, pushing Scott’s hair out of his face and kissing him. He’s clean shaven in the daydream, and he can feel every puff of Stiles’ breath on his skin as he thrusts, pushing them together over and over, bringing Scott closer to completion. Not just orgasm, something deeper, something more - bringing Scott closer to Stiles, to himself, to the person he wishes he was, that he used to be, that he could be someday again. Stiles whispers to him, voice liquid and melting, “You’re so beautiful, Scotty.”

Scott’s hand on his erection tightens and he spills messily, shocked at the force of it. He doesn’t moan or cry out, just gasps deeply at the pleasure rolling over him, curls over with it like he can hold onto the feeling. He’s panting slightly when he finally stands back up and lets the water sluice over him, taking care of the mess. He washes lazily, muscles gone loose with a lassitude he hasn’t felt in so long he’d almost forgotten he could be this relaxed. The soap over his sensitized skin feels nice and slick, and he takes his time rubbing it on and rinsing it off.

For the first time in months, though, he doesn’t wash his beard. He gets out of the shower, dries himself carefully off, and stands in front of the mirror. His reflection looks back at him - a man he is, a man he could stop being. He scrapes his fingers through the coarse hair of his beard and nods, steeling himself. It’s time.

The clippers are in the top drawer of the vanity, and they make a familiar buzzing noise as he uses them to trim carefully along his jawline. Hair falls in bunches to the sink, where he has a towel laid out to catch it. Every pass with the clippers leaves him cooler, refreshed, lighter feeling, like a weight is being taken off his shoulders. By the time he’s down to stubble, Scott’s almost excited to break out the razor and do the rest, though generally he hates shaving.

The razor passes cleanly over his skin, taking with it the last remnants of the beard he’s held onto for over a year now in some form or other. He splashes his face with water, cool on his warm skin, and disposes of the extra hair. He puts on his pajamas - flannel pants and a long sleeved henley - and shakes his head until his hair is at least mostly dry. He stalls, tidying up the already-neat bathroom, wiping down the sink and the shower door. He’s in the middle of wiping out the bathtub when Stiles knocks.

“You okay in there buddy?”

“Um, yeah, just a sec -” Scott says, finishing up with the cleaning before he goes to the door. He takes a deep breath and opens it, preparing himself for Stiles’ reaction.

“Whoa -” is all he gets for a moment, but when Scott risks looking at Stiles’ face he finds nothing to worry about.

“I thought it was about time,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t have to mention that he thought it would be nice to fee Stiles’ lips on his chin, his jaw. That can be just for him to know.

“I was just getting used to it,” Stiles says, leaning against the doorway in that casual way he has, filling up the space with his long form.

“I could grow it back,” Scott says with a shrug - he probably will, as a matter of fact; shaving is a pain in the ass and he doesn’t want to do it most of the time.

“Nah,” Stiles says, and reaches out to brush a hand over his smooth-shaven face. Stiles’ fingers are cold, tracing cool streaks down Scott’s jawline, thumbing one over his cheek. “I like this too. I can see your dimples this way.”

Scott grins in answer. “You can?”

“Well I can now,” Stiles corrects, and leans forward to kiss him in just that little dip, an inch from his mouth. Scott turns his head to catch Stiles’ lips in a kiss, everything heightened with the beard out of the way. Stiles keeps it slow and sweet, the perfect bedtime kiss.

“Stiles?” Scott asks as they break apart, lingering in Stiles’ space. “Sleep in my bed tonight, with me?”

Stiles’ eyes look a little brighter even as he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I want that. Want you there with me.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmare imagery including drowning and being followed at the beginning of this chapter. To skip it, CTRL-F "Wake up Scotty."

The woods close around him as Scott runs, faster - faster - the thing behind him gaining speed. It’s so cold without his coat, but he barely thinks about it as he runs. He turns right, then left, winding his way through the trees. Suddenly, a rushing river is just a few feet away, cutting off his route of escape. He turns, running alongside it, but he can practically feel the thing breathing down his neck. He risks a look at the water, swift and dangerous, and wonders how it got here - there are no rivers in the woods, that he remembers, not in the Preserve, and not here in the frozen north. He starts toward it, remembering that running water means protection from evil, and misses a root sticking up from the ground. He falls, bare hands catching his weight on the ice underneath him.

He’s on the middle of a pond, staring down at his own warped reflection. Fissures strike out from his palms, webbing their way around him as the ice cracks under his weight. Scott tries to get up, tries to scoot himself out of the way of the cracks, but his hands are stuck to the ice and he can’t seem to move. The ice groans like it’s going to give way, water seeping up from the cracks.

He pulls and pulls, breath caught in his chest as the mirror-finish of the frozen surface fades away, and something underneath catches his eye. A face, floating up from the depths - Stiles, trapped under the ice, banging on it and yelling, bubbles pouring out of his mouth. Scott screams for help, his own hands struggling to make fists despite being stuck fast to the ice, but nothing works - he can’t move, all he can do is watch, helpless, as Stiles presses desperately against the ice, begging for air.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, tears freezing on his cheeks and shattering in the wild, cold wind that whips around him. He senses the thing coming for him, stalking him from behind as he watches Stiles give up, slowly sink back down into the water. “I’m sorry - I can’t move, I’m sorry - Stiles, I can’t -”

“Wake up Scotty.” Stiles shakes him gently, warm hands on Scott’s shoulders. Scott wakes with a gasp, clutching at Stiles with both hands, drenched in sweat that stinks like fear. For a moment he’s afraid he can’t breathe, like the ice cracked and he’s drowning in thin air, but then Stiles’ hand is on his chest, rubbing gentle circles there, and he remembers how to take air in through his nose, out through his mouth, lungfuls at a time.

“That’s good,” Stiles says, encouraging him to breathe slow and steady, counting softly under his breath. “You’re doing well, 5 - 6 - 7 - and out - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5. Good job.”

“I’m okay,” Scott says, voice hoarse from crying. “I - I think I’ve got it now.” It still hurts to breathe in, his throat and chest tight, but he manages.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Stiles asks, curling around him in the bed. Firelight plays over his face, changing the shape of his nose, his eyes, his cheeks, until Scott has to stop looking at him for fear those beloved features won’t change back.

“I was running from something,” Scott says, and he can still feel the terror, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “And there was a river, for some reason - there’s usually a river, I don’t know why -”

“Weird,” Stiles says quietly, but nods.

“And then I was suddenly like… on this pond, but it was frozen over, and the ice was cracking, but I couldn’t move, and then you were underneath it, and -”

“Okay, alright, it’s okay,” Stiles says softly, taking Scott’s hand in his own and squeezing it. His voice is quiet, a barely voiced whisper that Scott has to strain to hear over the crackle of wood in the fireplace. “That sounds scary.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Scott says. “At the end, I knew the thing was coming for me, but all I could think about was you - how you were - and I couldn’t get to you, and you -”

“Shhh, I’m right here. Safe and sound, just like you,” Stiles comforts him, pulling the covers up high. It’s only been a few nights since Scott asked Stiles to sleep in the bed with him, but already it feels natural to sink under the blankets in Stiles’ arms, to snuggle in close to him and breathe deeply of his scent. It’s comfortable in a way Scott hasn’t been in years, and he’s sure that any moment it’s going to be ripped away from him, just like in his dream.

As if Stiles can hear him thinking, he scoffs. “I’m not going anywhere, either, so don’t you worry about that. I’m staying right here with you.”

_For now_ , Scott thinks, but doesn’t voice his bitter addition. Instead he focuses on how nice it is to have Stiles here, in his house, his bed, his life. He snuggles in close and presses a kiss to Stiles’ throat, something soft and sweet to contrast all the feelings inside him.

“Go back to sleep,” Stiles says, so quiet Scott’s not sure at first if he heard it. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep watch. Nothing else is going to get to you with me here.”

“And what if something gets to you?” Scott asks, drowsy already.

“Nothing gets to me, Scotty. Now shhhh, go to sleep.”

Scott wakes up for the second time with Stiles’ face pressed into his neck, Stiles’ arm thrown over his waist, and one of Stiles’ feet tangled between his own. That is to say, he wakes up for the second time nearly perfectly happy, his nightmare a distant memory.

“Mm, sleep better?” Stiles asks, pressing a kiss to Scott’s neck like it’s nothing. Scott shivers, pulls the covers up higher even though the room is fairly warm, covering them both up.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning a little. He’s probably never gotten better sleep after a nightmare than he did last night, wrapped up in Stiles. “Lots better. Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” is all Stiles says, but his smile speaks volumes. “What time is it?”

“Just after 9,” Scott tells him. Not that it matters much - it’ll be dark out for hours still. Still, he likes to keep a somewhat normal schedule despite the dwindling sunlight. He tries to get up but Stiles’ body is in the way - possibly, he thinks, on purpose. “Are you keeping me in bed?”

“Does it look like I’m keeping you in bed?” Stiles asks archly, without moving any of the limbs that are holding Scott down.

“It sort of does.”

“I guess you have your answer then,” Stiles says with a grin.

Scott can’t help himself; he has to kiss that grin, and then kiss it again, and again. Stiles makes soft, pleased noises into his mouth, kissing him back lazily like he’s still half asleep. Scott kisses until Stiles is lost in kissing him back, has snaked his hands up to card through Scott’s hair and wrapped a leg around Scott’s thighs, making it easy to roll them over so Stiles is on his back and Scott is on top.

“I could get used to this,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott blushes and ducks his head. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

“Could just eat me - ow, hey!” Stiles laughs, warding off Scott’s light slaps with both hands.

“That was awful and you deserved it,” Scott says, rolling off of him and then off the bed, feet hitting the cool floor with a little hissed inhale. He climbs back up on the edge of the bed to pull on some socks - not his thigh highs, but a pair of thick, nubby mid-calf ones that one of the old ladies in the town knitted for him last year. Stiles worms an arm around his waist as he does so.

“Hey, what’s today?” Stiles asks, and Scott blinks. He keeps a little calendar by the bed, but he has to do some figuring to remember the date - especially since he stopped marking off the days a couple of weeks before.

“Um, looks like it’s the 24th,” he says, biting his lip as he counts backward in his head. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure - Thursday the 24th.”

“Can I borrow the snowmobile today?” Stiles asks, uncharacteristic.

“What for?”

“A surprise,” he says. “Don’t worry, I know how to find my way back home, even in the dark. I’m a lot better with directions than I used to be.”

“Sure, then, I guess,” Scott says, distracted. His mind is stuck on other things - like the fact that it’s been a month since Stiles got here, and there are just six weeks left until the ice roads will be stable.

Six weeks until Stiles can - _will_ \- leave.

“I won’t be gone long,” Stiles promises, smacking a kiss on Scott’s cheek as he levers himself up and out of the bed. “Vesta will keep you out of trouble, won’t you girl?”

Vesta woofs happily in agreement, and Scott rolls his eyes. Whatever Stiles is planning, Scott lets him have his way - there are very few surprises in his life these days, and the promise of one is enough to put an extra spring in his step as he bounds out of bed and toward the kitchen to make breakfast.

 

The promise of a surprise starts wearing on him six hours later, when Stiles won’t let him out of the bedroom to see what’s happening in the rest of the cabin.

“Trust me, you want to stay in here,” Stiles says, bringing him the book he requested off of the shelf and kissing his forehead. “It won’t be long now.”

Scott huffs at the door as Stiles shuts it behind him. He feels silly, but it’s weird to be exiled in his own home like this. He and Vesta share a long look before she settles back in, watching the door with drooping eyes. Scott tries to read, but he’s distracted - there are smells coming from his kitchen that he didn’t expect, and clattering sounds that he wants to go take care of. When Stiles finally comes in half an hour later to announce things are ready, Scott can barely contain his curiosity.

He bounds out of the bedroom nearly as excitedly as Vesta does, and stops short when he realizes what happened. All over his cabinets are little pans of food - cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, mashed sweet potatoes, roasted chicken breasts, even a cake with sloppy icing spread too thickly over the top.

“Voila,” Stiles says, a little uncertainly. “Um, happy Thanksgiving, Scott.”

Scott blinks at him, and then back at the food, until finally it sinks in - November 24th is more than just one day closer to the time when Stiles will leave. It’s Thanksgiving, back home. He can picture it - his mom making the dressing he grew up eating, pulling a turkey breast out of the oven for Stiles’ dad to carve up, playing Go Fish after dinner just like they used to -

“Scotty, you okay?” Stiles asks, and Scott realizes there are tears in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m -” he sniffs unconvincingly. “I’m fine. This is - this is really nice.”

Before he realizes what’s happening, Stiles has him wrapped in a hug, warm and comfortable. Scott buries his face in Stiles’ shoulder and lets himself have a moment, tears leaking freely into Stiles’ flannel shirt. It’s not the first time he’s cried into Stiles’ flannel, he thinks absurdly. It probably won’t be the last.

“If I’d known you had such an aversion to cake I wouldn’t have made one,” Stiles jokes after Scott’s calmed himself down.

“You actually made it?” Stiles isn’t known for his skill in the kitchen, and he can just imagine ten years more or less on the road hasn’t helped matters.

“Out of a box mix, yeah. The dressing’s from a box too, and the sweet potatoes are out of a can, but the chicken’s fresh - you’re not going to start crying again are you?”

“No,” Scott laughs, though he wipes at his eyes just the same. “No, it’s - it’s great, Stiles. Thank you. I haven’t had Thanksgiving in… a long time.”

“Me either,” Stiles says with a shrug, and guides Scott over to the plates that he has stacked on one side of the counter. “Fill up, there’s lots of food. Last year at this time, I was driving through Denver with Braeden. We stopped at Boston Market. She talked to Derek on the phone the whole time, and my turkey was cold.”

Scott laughs again, filling his plate with chicken and dressing, casserole and potatoes. “That sounds pretty miserable.”

He shrinks away from his own Thanksgiving last year - just one more day in a sea of cold, comfortless days. He can’t pick Thanksgiving out from the line-up of November snowstorms and dark mornings that bled into darker nights. He knows that at some point around the end of the month, Vesta had gotten sick for a few days - that’s the only defining feature of November he can think of.

Scott sits at his little table with his plate full of food and starts to take a bite before Stiles lightly smacks at his hand with a reprimanding noise.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks. “We have to say what we’re thankful for first.”

Scott’s hit with a memory as clear as day, of a Thanksgiving where Melissa and John had both had to work and he and Stiles had been home alone. They sat down in front of their turkey sandwiches with just as much reverence as they would have had it been a real Thanksgiving feast.

_“I’m thankful for my mom, and how hard she works so I can eat and have a place to live, and for the food we’re about to eat, and - and for you,” Scott had said, twelve years old and a little awkward but just every bit sincere in his little speech._

_“And I’m thankful for my dad, and for Lydia Martin -” Scott swatted Stiles’ leg and Stiles laughed - “and for you, Scott. My best friend.”_

“Right,” Scott says. “I’m - um.” He swallows and starts again, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. “I’m thankful for my mom, and I hope she’s happy. I’m thankful for - for Vesta. I’m thankful to be alive. And - uh. I’m thankful for you, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, smiling. “I’m thankful for my dad, and for Braeden, and for a better Thanksgiving than last year. And I’m thankful I found you.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, just letting it sink in. It’s Thanksgiving, and for the first time in years, they both have something they are genuinely thankful for.

“Okay, enough sappy stuff,” Stiles says finally, grinning. “Let’s eat.”


	18. Chapter 18

Scott can tell almost immediately upon waking that today isn’t going to be a good one. It isn’t – as it so often is – because he feels the threat of loneliness overwhelming him again, or because he misses his mother so much it hurts, or even because the future stretching out in front of him is as bleak and miserable as the December landscape. Instead, it’s because he takes one look at Stiles’ face and recalls that he isn’t the only one that has bad days.

And Stiles’ bad days are the worst.

One look at Stiles’ furrowed brow takes him back to high school, to sharp-edged Stiles sharpening all his edges on whoever came too close. That the closest person was usually Scott was a given then, and Scott had developed habits to blunt him: a certain tone of voice, firm but gentle; a steadying hand on the back of his neck; a sideways remark reminding him that Scott was generally the person least deserving of his ire. It hadn’t always helped, but it had given him something to do until the storm passed, and Scott clings to the little behavior toolkit like a life raft as Stiles bangs around the cabin in a huff, slamming cabinet doors and boiling water with such ferocity that Scott’s scared to drink his morning tea, for fear it will rise up out of the cup and attack him.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks gently, scraping at the eggs on his plate – eggs he’d carefully scrambled for both of them before Stiles decided he wanted oatmeal, of all things, instead. Stiles looks at him from over his bowl of doctored oats and squints.

“You were right there, weren’t you?” he asks sharply.

“Well, sure, but I was sleeping,” Scott says, a little surprised at Stiles’ aggressive response despite himself. He knows better than to try to engage Stiles on days like this, but he can’t help himself.

Stiles grumbles something unintelligible into his oats before finally saying, “Nightmares,” as both an answer and an excuse. It works well enough for Scott - he’s had enough nightmares to last several lifetimes, and they usually ruin whatever good mood he can scrape together.

“Want to tell me what they were about?” Scott asks, keeping his voice quiet and soft. Stiles shrugs him off though, unwilling or unable to delve into it.

“I don’t want to think about it,” Stiles says, voice flat. Scott leaves him alone, lets him stew over his oatmeal until it’s cold and thick, basically inedible. He says nothing as Stiles dumps the entire bowl in the compost sack, simply goes about his chores like it is any other day.

It isn’t any other day, though, and Stiles’ bad mood makes that obvious. Normally they wash dishes together, one of them scrubbing and the other drying, side by side. Stiles splashes him with water, or Scott puts his wet hands under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, or one of them uses the dish towel as a weapon in some way, teasing playfully as if they were children. Today, though, Scott washes and dries alone, no Stiles next to him to help. He tries not to let it sting - he knows there are days when Stiles does the chores alone, too, because Scott’s too sad or broken to even get out of bed, and he thanks the powers that be that there are two bowls in the sink instead of just one. Still, he can’t help but wish for the feeling of Stiles’ arms around his waist like they were yesterday, Stiles’ chin resting on Scott’s shoulder as he watched Scott dry a plate with the utmost care.

Instead, Stiles is across the room thumbing through a novel like it insulted him personally.

“Why do you have so many of these when I never see you reading?” Stiles asks, his tone combative.

“Well, I used to read more,” Scott says with a shrug, trying to stay as calm and relaxed as he can. “I didn’t have anybody to talk to then.”

He thinks back to the days before Stiles got here - they seem so long ago now - when he’d spend most his days and nights reading, or whittling away at a project near the fireplace, or listening to radio dramas with Vesta curled up beside him on the sofa. His life now, with Stiles in it, seems so unlike the life before, even though relatively little has changed. Stiles showed up and wiped his slate clean, shook up everything in his life just by stepping into it.

“You could always have gone to town,” Stiles argues. “It’s really not that far, and that guy - Ezra, he seems to like you. You could have gone to him instead of just hanging out here alone.”

“You’re right,” Scott agrees, though he doesn’t want to. The fact is, he could have gone to town at any time during the winter - it isn’t the weather’s fault that he rarely gets to town. It’s his own choice. The one he made to protect himself.

“I just don’t get why you’re doing this to yourself when you could have a _life_ ,” Stiles says. He sounds almost desperate, spoiling for a fight, and Scott’s tempted to give him one - to rail and shout, to tell Stiles he has no idea what he’s talking about, to defend himself and his choices. Instead he turns inward, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably.

“I don’t know,” he says, but that does nothing to defuse the situation. Instead, it seems to make Stiles even angrier. He snaps the book shut and slams it down on the shelf with a thump, scaring Vesta in the corner. She barks, short and sharp, and Scott and Stiles both freeze. It’s the first time in weeks that she’s been anything but sweet with Stiles - since he first got to the cabin and tried to come in during Scott’s nightmare. Now her hackles are up, hair raised all along her back and neck, and a low growl emits from her throat.

Scott goes to her, ignoring Stiles for the moment, and smoothes his hand down her fur. He sinks to his knees and gathers her close, petting her to calm her down.

“It’s alright Vesta, he didn’t mean anything by it. Stiles is just having a bad day today, that’s all. Shhhh, it’s okay,” he soothes, stroking one hand over her fur and hugging her close to his body. Behind him he hears Stiles snort and then everything seems to happen all at once. There’s a full-body grunt as Stiles flops down on the sofa, and then a loud thump - the sound of Stiles’ head hitting the wooden arm, again. Stiles hisses through his teeth, obviously in pain, and Scott turns just in time to see him sit up, holding his head.

“Are - are you okay?” he asks cautiously, afraid to make it any worse than it already is.

“No I’m not okay,” Stiles growls. “This fucking thing - and the dog, and the oatmeal, and - and we’re out here, in the middle of nowhere, and I can’t even - fuck! No, it’s not okay. I’m not okay.”

Scott watches this all wide-eyed, still petting Vesta carefully with both hands. She’s settled down, and he wonders for a moment if he ought not go over to Stiles and pet him, see if that would make him feel better. Before he can act on the thought, though, Stiles stands up and snatches his parka off the hook on the wall, grabs the snowmobile keys from their hook and shoves them in his pocket.

“I’m going out.” Stiles says gruffly, not quite stomping past Scott and Vesta on the floor, but walking with a little more force than necessary.

Scott watches, dumbfounded as the door closes behind him and doesn’t open again. For a moment, all his worst fears overwhelm him: Stiles is gone. Stiles is going to take the snowmobile to town and find some way to get to the airport up in Inuvik, and from there get to Yellowknife, and home. He’s going to leave Scott here, shuttered up in his sad little cabin for the rest of his life. He’s going to leave and Scott doesn’t even have his phone number, to call him from his stupidly expensive sat phone. He’s going to leave and Scott never made love to him the way he wanted to, because he was too uncomfortable in his skin to let Stiles near him. He’s going to leave and -

The sound of Vesta’s whining breaks the downward spiral Scott finds himself in.

“You’re right,” Scott says softly, bumping her nose with his own. “He just went out to cool off. He’ll be back in no time.”

 

The problem is, he isn’t back in no time. Half an hour passes, then an hour, then two as Scott watches the clock. He tries to read but he can’t, distracted as he is by Stiles’ absence. It’s like a living thing in the room with him, the lack of Stiles. He needs to get used to it, he thinks. After all, no one but him would stay out here in the middle of nowhere forever - no matter how much Stiles loves him, he’ll need to go back, back to his dad and to Malia and to Braeden. He’ll get bored, restless, lash out like he did today - Scott’s not interesting like being on the road was interesting. He wonders, vaguely, if Stiles ever regrets finding him - if the search for Scott was more rewarding than the end result.

Vesta yips suddenly, watching the door like she has been for the past hour, and Scott looks up at her, dismal thoughts broken by the sound. She looks at him, then at the door expectantly, and then back. It only takes a few seconds before Scott’s up, gathering up his own parka and his hat, and leading the way to the door. He grabs an electric lantern off the wall as well, eyeing the rapidly descending dark outside.

“You’re right, Vesta,” he says quietly. She follows him without question, nose pressed to the floor like she can sniff Stiles out from here. “He should have been back by now. Let’s go find him.”

Scott throws open the door and steps out into the world, Vesta at his side.


	19. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was penned by none other than the glorious [LC](http://anomalagous.tumblr.com/), my regular beta and sometimes artist. LC is a master at Stiles' voice and she did a great job with this little peek into Stiles' psyche so please let her know if you enjoy this. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains gun violence, threats of and references to murder. It's not necessary to the plot of the overall story so if you want to skip it because of the guns, you won't miss major plot details.

He _hates_ Mexico.

There are many, many reasons why, various and intimate reasons why this particular country is becoming the bane of his existence. Many of them relate to the sun and the _heat_ and the ever-present sand, but if Stiles is really honest with himself, what it _really_ comes down to is that the entirety of the country had failed to give up the one thing he’d ever asked for from it.

He’s gotten a lot of other things instead. Stiles hasn’t ever been sure he’s wanted them.

He has them anyway, like he has this _job_. There’s been a lot of those, over the years. This one isn’t any different, except for how it kind of _is_. Most of the jobs he and Braeden had taken, over the years, have had little to do with Stiles’ ongoing _Epic Quest_. Most of them were sheer necessity. They needed money to survive, and they had a particular set of skills that could get them that money. It turned out their skillsets and personalities dovetail pretty well when it comes to work. They’ve been incredibly effective at the mercenary part of the job.

_Less_ effective at the search Stiles set out on almost ten years ago, one that had gradually and over time become less something he referred to with any kind of tongue-in-cheek name and more just a constant background noise to his existence. It was habit at this point, carried on the momentum of a decade-old stubbornness, the way he’d search for any tiny, infinitesimal hint of Scott’s presence as he scanned for jobs.

Usually, it came up with nothing. _This time_ , there’s a sliver of hope, as thin as the newest crescent moon.

It doesn’t matter how small their chances are. As soon as Stiles had seen the possibility, he’d jumped on it, dragging Braeden with him into the depths of Mexico’s desert.

Years ago, Stiles might have filled the space of their journey with endless prattle, stupid jokes, _anything_ just to fill the silence. He’s gotten used to the silence. He’s gotten used to having force himself to be patient and still, to crush the noise of his own mind under a proverbial thumb so that he can get things _done_. He doesn’t talk on the way into the desert any more than they need to. He sits in the passenger seat of their truck and checks over his gun, one leg propped up on the dashboard to help absorb the shocks of the road.

It turns out to be Braeden that starts the conversation, after they’re almost on top of the target. She’s been giving him little judgemental glances since they left Juarez, and Stiles has mostly been ignoring them. She’s never been the kind of person to leave things alone, however, and they’ve worked together long enough for her to recognize the tension in his shoulders that he hasn’t been able to get rid of on missions like these, not even after all of these years. “ _So_ , you’re super tense and the pay for this job is kind of _crap_ , considering how far we’ve come out, so let me guess. You heard McCall’s name on the wind again.”

“You know the rules, Braeden.” Stiles says, his voice dull-edged. He saves the sharpness for when he really needs it, these days. He’s learned a lot about when and how to wield a deadly weapon. “I’ll do jobs with you, I’ll watch your back, but I’m out here to find Scott. If I get info on him, we’re moving on it.”

Braeden makes a quiet, unimpressed noise, and scans the horizon with her eyes. “What’s this one, then?”

“Rumor has it this guy was invoking the name of the long-missing _True Alpha McCall_ to try to get some local clout in moving away from the Calaveras. Rumor _also_ has it that Scott’s moved on ages ago, but this is the first time in months we’ve even heard of anyone knowing who he was, so…” Stiles gestures briefly with the hand not holding his gun, letting Braeden come to her own conclusion.

She still looks unimpressed, but Stiles has seen that expression so many times now that it just doesn’t make an impact on him any more.

They pull off of the highway to off-road towards a small huddle of buildings in the near distance. Stiles drops his leg and holsters his pistol, just to bring the other one out for another final check. Dust billows up behind the truck as they bounce closer and closer. It’s impossible to hide, but honestly, Stiles kind of doesn’t _want_ to.

As they bring the truck to a stop, a man emerges from one of the sad, sun-baked buildings. He matches the intel Stiles picked up on the Calaveras’ stray omega earlier down to the gritty details, so Stiles doesn’t bother to even hide the gun still in his hand when he hops down out of the car. He tips his chin up and calls out in Spanish, just enough local flavor on his accent to _really_ confuse the actual locals. “ _Hey, Tomas Vargas? We just want to talk a little._ ”

Tomas takes one look at Stiles, Braeden, and the truck they arrived in, and turns to bolt into the desert.

In the past, Stiles might have hesitated. He might have even lost the mark, unsure how to keep a werewolf from speeding away from a pair of humans at high speed. There might have been fumbling, or yelling, or racing back to the car to try and keep up somehow.

Stiles does none of those things. He doesn’t even check in with Braeden. He just lifts his gun and blows Tomas’ right knee out.

The omega goes down in a howl of pain, tumbling over the dirt. Stiles shows no hurry in catching up, his gun still held loosely at his side, finger still curled near the trigger. He could shoot this guy again, if he needed to, but he’s hoping it won’t come to that. The Calaveras will pay more if he’s alive, and it’s just a lot less _messy_ if he and Braeden don’t have to do the killing themselves. “ _Hey, hey, hey, slow down, I just **said** we only wanted to talk. Now look what I had to do.”_

Tomas has his fangs and claws out by the time Stiles catches up, but that doesn’t worry Stiles much, either. He switches out his guns, keeping the second one levelled at Tomas. “ _This is going to be much easier on you if you play along. Try to run again, you’ll find out this one’s full of wolfsbane bullets. Answer my questions and maybe I’ll get the Calaveras to be gentle with you.”_

Behind him, Stiles can hear Braeden stepping into view, her favored shotgun slung across her body. They take turns which one of them is the talker and which the stoic, intimidating badass, usually, but any time information about Scott is on the line, Stiles ends up in charge.

Tomas glances at Braeden, but ends up focused on Stiles again. “ _What do you want from me? The Calaveras will kill me.”_

“ _Probably.”_ Stiles agrees, because it’s true--the massive Hunter family isn’t famous for its gentle and understanding treatment of rogue Omegas. “ _But they will give you a chance to die with honor. Quickly, efficiently. Don’t you think that’s a better choice than withering away to wolfsbane poisoning in the middle of the desert?”_

Tomas flicks a nervous tongue over his teeth, and finally gives in a little. His eyes haven’t really moved off of Stiles’ trigger finger. “ _What do you want?”_

_“I heard you were throwing around the name of **Scott McCall** while you were trying to get out of town. I’m real, **real** interested in knowing why you thought he’d get you out of there.”_

Tomas blinks too much, looking confused and then somehow more fearful in turn. “ _Look, I--I don’t even really know who Scott McCall is. I was just told his name would get people moving. Like a password, to get out of the city.”_

Frustration starts to claw at Stiles’ chest, but he ignores that, too. He has to focus, or this moment will be lost, and he won’t get _anything_ out of it. “ _Okay, so who told you that his name would get you places?”_

“ _Nobody, nobody told me, I don’t know where I even got that idea.”_ Tomas stammers, his head shaking. It’s the wrong answer. It’s in _every way_ the wrong answer.

Luckily, all it takes is Stiles shifting his trigger finger a little before Tomas is thinking better of the lie, gasping a little as he reaches up towards Stiles in something like supplication. “ _No, no, okay, I remember, it was Mary Webb. She...she lives in Juarez, in the west. She knows, she knows about McCall. Ask her.”_

Stiles smiles, well aware that there isn’t anything comforting or warm in the expression. It’s a mask of a smile he learned how to use years ago, just to unsettle people. “ _Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation_.”

He doesn’t even flinch when Braeden moves up swiftly from behind and clubs Tomas into unconsciousness with the butt of her shotgun.

 

*           *           *

 

It takes two days to track Mary Webb down in the bowels of Juarez, which does exactly nothing to soothe Stiles’ jangled nerves. By the time they find their way into her house, splitting the difference between brute force and brute _finesse_ , Stiles already has the scent of blood.

It’s so unbelievably _mundane_ inside that ramshackle house, so _plain_ and unassuming. It’s dirty and cramped and Stiles isn’t even sure there’s electricity. They find Mary Webb in the front room of her house, a book in her hands, calm and unimpressed. “You two _could_ have knocked.”

Stiles has no patience for _banter_. He feels almost like a rollback version of himself, too much energy pricking at his limbs. His teeth hurt from gritting them together, but he refuses to let the anxious anticipation impact his ability to draw his gun or to aim it. He doesn’t have any more restraint left to hold back his desire to demand answers at the very first opportunity. “Where _is_ he?”

As soon as he’s said it, he’s aware that he’s cut out too much of the exposition; Mary has no way of knowing who the hell Stiles is talking about, even if thoughts of Scott and finally getting an _idea_ of the right direction has been all that’s filled his skull for two long days. The woman’s expression twitches through something like confusion. “Where’s _who_ , exactly?”

Braeden steps into the conversation, there, maybe to prevent Stiles from wasting any time bubbling through his insult that Mary Webb didn’t somehow, magically, _know_ who Stiles meant. “We ran into your friend Tomas on the way out of town. He said that you’d told him to use the name of Scott McCall to leverage his way out of Juarez. We’re here for your information on McCall’s location.”

“Are you serious? Nobody’s cared about him for years. He isn’t a person any more, he’s just a codeword people pass around here, a series of syllables you can trade for safety.” Mary’s incredulousness is thick in her voice, sickening. “Or he was. I suppose now he isn’t even that, now that there’s Hunters following his name.”

The way she talks reminds Stiles just a little too much of Alan Deaton. Stiles ran out of patience or fucks to give for Deaton _years_ ago, the moment it became intimately clear to him that Deaton knew exactly where Scott had gone and wasn’t going to tell Stiles, not on the pain of his or any other deaths.

Stiles had tried that one already. He _knew_.

It certainly doesn’t endear Mary to him. Stiles leans forward a little, not onto his toes because that would overbalance him, but further onto the balls of his feet, like a cat about to pounce. “Well, somebody cares now. So, I repeat, _where is he_?”

Mary laughs like a warning siren. It sets all of the hairs on Stiles’ arms and the back of his neck standing on end. “He isn’t _anywhere_. He used to be here, or near here, a long time ago. But not any more. I lost track of him when he went back north across the border. It’s always a dangerous transition. He didn’t survive it, he _couldn’t_ have survived it. If he was alive, I would know where he was.”

There are so, _so_ many things Stiles wants to address about Mary says. So many questions he wants to ask, mostly starting with _where was he going_ and circling closely around _why would you think you would know where he is when **I** have no idea_?

None of them come out of his mouth, because his vision goes over red.

He has his gun in his hand before he realizes he’s moving. His whole body boils with a rage he hasn’t felt for _years_ , a fury that claws through everything inside him and tears it to tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He’s screaming, and Stiles doesn’t even know _what_ he’s screaming. He’s not sure it’s English.

It’s just pain, and wrath, loss and despair and shattered dreams.

He presses the muzzle of the gun directly against Mary’s temple. He makes a sound that isn’t _human,_ which quickly becomes the only sound he can hear.

The only reason the bullet doesn’t shatter the side of Mary’s skull is because Braeden grapples him suddenly from behind. Instead, the bullet takes a chunk out of the wall behind Mary.

Braeden has Stiles disarmed in the next few seconds, locking his gun arm and neck into a suppression hold that _feels_ like it’s about to tear his shoulder out of its joint. She backs them out of the house slowly, talking to Stiles the entire time. She has him halfway down the block before Stiles becomes able to actually process her words. “--you need to get yourself under control. This is _unacceptable_.”

She’s right. Stiles knows she’s right. He just _hates_ it. He’s always felt that he was _fine_ with the unacceptable when it comes to Scott. Braeden has never understood.

He stops struggling against her grapple, lets himself more or less go limp in her arms. “I’m...I’m fine. I’m fine. You can let me go. I’m not going to do anything here. We can go back to the safehouse.”

Slowly, Braeden releases Stiles. She stares at him, dour and annoyed, as she returns his gun to him, watches like a hawk as he puts it back in its holster.

They don’t talk on their way back to the safehouse. The tension rattles around in the truck like that stray bullet, and Stiles isn’t sure where it ends up. Possibly lodged in the wall of his aching, time-hardened heart.

The sun is starting to sink below the horizon when they finally get back to their base. It’s a small thing outside of town, wired with cameras and unornamented. There’s a tiny kitchenette, one bathroom and two bedrooms barely larger than closets. Any remaining space is taken up by their arsenal; guns and gadgets and Stiles’ _research equipment_ , which mostly comes down to his tablet a mobile modem to ensure internet access even in the middle of the Mexican Desert.

He’s still unsettled from earlier, frustrated to have an old wound opened again with no resolution. He knows it isn’t going to help, but Stiles still ends up grabbing his tablet and slumping onto the old couch that sulks in one corner of the safehouse. He barely attends to Braeden moving through the space, securing guns and checking on others, instead pulling up his _Scott Map_.

It’s a project almost ten years in the making, the spiritual successor to the crime map that had dominated his room during high school. Now, everything Stiles has ever known about Scott’s movements after he left Beacon Hills is on the tablet, carefully annotated and cross-referenced and redundantly backed up. It’s been _work_ , work like Stiles might have thought he wasn’t capable of, years ago, and he has so little to show for it.

A few appearances, wandering south from Beacon Hills, rebounding a few times off of the Rockies before ending up in Mexico. A few mentions, a few interviews with people who knew so little about Scott that it had almost turned Stiles’ stomach. Red strings, red strings, and more red strings. No yellow, no green. Just red.

He’s still staring at all of the little red dots on his map when the email from Lydia comes in. It’s succinct, as emails from Lydia so often are, but it contains a short paragraph that quickly becomes the only thing Stiles can read.

_Got a hit on the algorithm. Might be nothing. The word ‘Nemeton’ showed up on search engines connected to an independent furniture maker in northern Canada._

There’s this _sound_ that roars through Stiles’ ears, like an oncoming train. Mary’s words echo in his head under the fuzz of it, over and over, twisting and turning in a widening gyre. _He went north over the border. He went north._

It all condenses into a singularity of sound, which transmutes into an epiphany, and Stiles stands from the couch so quickly he knocks something off of the end table next to him.

Braeden has her gun out first, as a sheer reflex, her _questions_ out second. Her whole expression is skeptical as she speaks to Stiles, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Stiles can feel an expression take over his face that he hasn’t made in _years_. He turns it to her, eyes a little too wide, voice wondering. “I know where I have to go. I have to go _north_.”


	20. Chapter 20

The air outside is still and cold, Scott’s breath the only disturbance. He calls out for Stiles twice, but there’s no answer - and he really didn’t expect one. After two hours, Stiles would have to be gone far beyond the reach of Scott’s voice. Still, he had to try. Scott looks around, the cold biting through his layers as he tries to find evidence of where Stiles went. There are tracks in the snow, but they meet and cross over various other tracks, leading to a maze of curling footprints and pawprints and wide-set tracks from the snowmobile. Vesta waits patiently at his side as Scott decides a plan of action. Stiles wouldn’t have gone to town - not in a mood like that, and not without something specific in mind. There’s only one other place in the forest they’ve been often enough that Stiles could get there on the snowmobile alone and Scott would have a chance of finding him, so he sets off on foot toward the stargazing hill.

“We’re going to find him,” he tells Vesta as convincingly as he can. She barks in response. His imagination runs rife with scenarios, things that could be keeping Stiles outside even though it’s well below freezing. He pictures Stiles trapped by felled limbs or fallen through the ice on the nearby pond or (possibly worse), perfectly fine and angry that Scott’s come looking for him. He doesn’t let that slow him down, though. Scott and Vesta traipse into the wood, following the path out of the familiarity of his yard and into the frigid unknown.

The trees look denser, less friendly as he walks further from home. He’s never felt quite comfortable in the forest despite having lived inside the tree line for four years. It seems to want to keep him out, to keep everything out, like there’s something lurking between all those trees that could devour him whole if he gets too close. He doesn’t like thinking of Stiles out there in it, alone and unable to defend himself. He could run into anything between here and the hill - a buck, a moose, even a bear. Scott speeds his steps as he remembers the claw marks on the tree trunk, moving as swiftly as he can over the packed snow.

He forgets how slick it can be in spots, almost running before he loses his footing and goes down with a grunt. His hands skid over a sharp patch of ice, skinning the heels of them on the hard ground. It stings far worse than it looks like it should, and he watches as blood wells up in the abrasions. It’s only then that he realizes he left without gloves, his fingers stiff with cold. He bites his lip, breathing hard through his nose as he tamps down the urge to cry. It’s all too much - Stiles leaving, the cold, the impenetrable forest, the pain. He isn’t a crier, doesn’t break down usually, but it takes all he has to sniff back the tears and get up, cringing as he pushes up with his skinned hands.

Vesta whines at him, nosing his side as Scott collects himself, dusts the snow from his knees and wipes his hands gently on the cold outer layer of his parka.

“It’s okay girl,” he says, voice a little rough. “Just slipped, that’s all. C’mon, we - we have to keep going.”

They walk for half an hour before Scott notices fresh tracks, a little separate from the path he’s taken up and down the trail himself hundreds of times. He veers left, following them into a copse of trees near the road. His heart beats faster, pumping blood to his stiff fingers and toes, waking him up as he looks for signs of Stiles. The tracks grow deeper, the snowmobile slogging through fresher snow, unpacked and hardened like the snow on the trail. Vesta runs ahead, yipping as she goes, and Scott can’t help it, he runs after her. He hears Stiles before he sees him, a frustrated noise that echoes a bit, bouncing off the tree trunks until it gets to him.

“Stiles? Are you there?”

“Scotty?” Stiles calls back, and Scott goes right, follows the tracks to a dead end where he sees the problem: the snowmobile is smashed up against a tree, the nose of it covered in fallen snow.

“Are you hurt?” Scott asks instantly, grabbing Stiles by both arms and checking him over. Stiles’ nose is red, his lips pale and his cheeks ruddy. He’s obviously feeling the effects of three hours straight out here in the cold.

“I’ve been trying to get it dug out,” Stiles admits, teeth chattering. He gestures to the wrecked snowmobile with one hand, gripping Scott’s sleeve with the other. “I thought I was taking a shortcut, lost control here in the fresh snow. I think the front skate things are bent.”

“We can get it fixed,” Scott assures him. “Are you okay though? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Wasn’t going that fast,” Stiles says with a little shrug. “Just fast enough to fuck everything up. God, I’m sorry Scott. I should have known better than to leave -”

“It’s alright,” Scott interrupts. He can tell a self-flagellating rant coming when he sees one, and they don’t have time for it now - not with Stiles still out here in the cold. “Come on. If we both pull on the back, we should be able to get it away from the trees at least.”

They concentrate their efforts on the back end of the sled, pulling on the tow bar with all their might. Scott’s hands sting as he wraps them around the cold metal, his torn skin aching. He shoves the pain aside, tries not to think about it as he pulls. At first it doesn’t budge at all, and Scott thinks they might have to leave the snowmobile there. He tries not to think about what it would be like to be without it for the rest of the winter just because he can’t get it out of this grove. He’s been disconnected from the town, yes, but that was by choice - not being _able_ to get there is another kettle of fish entirely. Before he can work himself into an anxiety spiral though, Stiles interrupts him.

"What if I push while you pull?” he asks, walking around to the front and insinuating himself between the tree and the sled. He puts his feet on the nose, clearing the snow quickly, and rests his back against the tree. Scott takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and pulls. It’s a strain, harder than anything he’s done in a very long time, but finally it creaks out a protest and starts to move. Slowly, slowly, the snowmobile eases back from the trees. Scott walks around the front to look at the damage and whistles when he sees it.

“Well, it isn’t pretty,” he admits. Stiles ducks his head in agreement or shame or maybe both. The nose is smashed up, plastic bent and scraped, and the skis are knocked out of alignment. He thinks he can make it home, though. “Hop on, let’s see if I can get us out of here.”

The first time he turns the key, the engine makes a whining, whirring sound, and then quits altogether.

“Uh-oh,” Stiles says softly, his voice stark against the silence of the forest without the engine running.

“Maybe more than uh-oh,” Scott says, but he tries again, and again, turning the engine over until finally something sticks and it roars to life underneath them.

“Got it Scotty,” Stiles says, wrapping around him from behind. There’s only one helmet and Stiles insists Scott wear it. It feels silly - he’s technically a werewolf, even if he did sort of stop feeling like one years ago, and they’re going to manage a top speed of probably five miles an hour with the skates messed up, but Stiles shoves it clumsily at his head, so Scott puts it on, letting it muffle the world around him.

It takes some maneuvering, but Scott drives them out of the copse of trees and back to the trail. Stiles’ body is a solid weight behind his own as he wrestles with the steering, trying to force the snowmobile into submission. Vesta runs along beside them, easily keeping up at their crawling pace. Scott breathes a sigh of relief as the cabin finally comes into sight. His arms shake, weary from fighting with the steering on the sled, and he’s exhausted, but knowing that Stiles is safe and they’re home is enough to put the wind back in his sails.

“Come on, up we go,” he says as he helps Stiles stand. He takes off his helmet and the cold rushes in, stinging his face and his ears. It’s only then that he realizes how violently he’s shivering, despite his heavy layers - and how Stiles doesn’t seem to be at all. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“Just - ah - tired,” he says sluggishly. Stiles’ eyes are half-closed, like he could fall asleep standing there, and Scott knows too well what will happen if they don’t get him warmed up - he’s seen campers and loggers with hypothermia before. He pulls Stiles into the cabin, guiding him with one of Stiles’ arms slung over his shoulders. Scott starts a fire in the bedroom fireplace and then works to get Stiles’ clothes off, peeling off layer by layer until his bare skin is visible.

“What - what’re you doing Scotty?” Stiles asks unsteadily, yawning in the middle of his sentence.

“Getting you naked,” Scott says promptly. He pulls Stiles’ boots off and then strips off his socks, kneeling down on the floor next to the bed where Stiles is sitting.

“And why are you getting me naked?” Stiles asks - and already, Scott can see the warming effect of the fire working, as Stiles’ teeth start chattering.

“You were outside for too long. Skin to skin contact and lots of blankets is what you need.”

“Finally gonna - gonna get you naked in bed and all I had to do was get cold?” Stiles asks, and winks lazily at him.

“That’s all you had to do,” Scott agrees, pulling Stiles’ pants off and frowning at just how pale his skin seems - _is that blue undertone from the cold_ , he wonders, _or just from Stiles never going out in the sun?_ Either way, his skin is freezing to the touch, and in no time at all Scott has him in the bed, heaped high with blankets and a hot water bottle at his chest to help warm his blood. He only notices once Stiles is covered up just how uncovered he was before, and blushes to himself about it while adding more wood to the fire.

He wavers before peeling his own clothes off. Maybe it would be better if he made Stiles hot chocolate instead, or brought him more hot water bottles, or -

“Get in bed,” Stiles insists, voice rough. “I promise you’re safe with me. I don’t want to even move for the next five days.”   
“I know,” Scott says, feeling a little silly as he undresses. He’s so tired from the excursion that his limbs feel like lead, but he manages to slip out of his thermals. He leaves his boxer briefs securely in place without really thinking about it too hard - because if he does think about it, he knows he’s going to have an uncomfortable stiffness to deal with. He’s used to waking up with Stiles’ morning wood prodding his back now, but for some reason he’s shy about returning the favor. Scott thinks about decidedly unsexy things as he climbs into bed - old Mrs. Weicko’s cushion fabric and the way Vesta sometimes eats too fast and makes herself sick and the fact that he’s going to have to chop more firewood before long. He settles next to Stiles under the covers, wrapping his arms around him to share his warmth, the hot water bottle between them not the only thing that’s radiating heat. It feels good to hold Stiles, to be close to him even though he’s freezing. Stiles looks at him with so much fondness that Scott blushes, has to look away.

“G’night Scotty,” Stiles whispers, already dozing off. His face is already pinker, cheeks ruddy and mouth redder than it had been half an hour earlier. Scott breathes a sigh of relief.

“Sleep well, Stiles.”


	21. Chapter 21

Scott wakes up hours later to find Stiles rosy-pink and plastered to him, sweating under the heavy blankets. Stiles is heavy with sleep, his body thrown half over Scott’s, the hot water bottle long forgotten. _It would be cold by now anyway_ , Scott thinks, and it’s not like Stiles needs it anymore - his bed partner is radiating heat wherever their skin touches, and they have a lot of skin touching.

Maybe too much skin touching.

Maybe not enough.

Scott squirms just a bit under Stiles’ body, trying to reach around him to push the blankets down some. He only moves a little, but it’s enough to make Stiles’ eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. The motion captures Scott’s attention. They’re so long and thick, so pretty. That’s not really a word Scott thinks of in connection with Stiles often - handsome, yes, sexy, obviously, but he’s too big and broad and rough around the edges really to seem _pretty_ \- but he thinks it as Stiles’ eyelashes flutter tremblingly across his cheekbones.

He doesn’t realize he’s _said_ it until they flutter open, and Stiles eyes him with not a little bit of disdain.

“Pretty?” he asks, shifting until his body is caging Scott in on the bed. It feels fraught with intent, being underneath Stiles’ naked body in bed, and Scott can’t help but be turned on by it. He’s grateful for the slim protection of his boxer briefs, and at the same time he hates them, wants to be skin-to-skin with Stiles, nothing in between them.

“Your eyelashes,” Scott clarifies, feeling slow and tongue tied under Stiles’ watchful gaze. “They’re so long and… thick…”

“That’s not all that’s long and -” Stiles stops, and Scott can’t help himself. He laughs, and Stiles is laughing too, their faces both scrunched up together in laughter as Stiles rolls off of him to the side and pulls Scott with him, until they’re on their sides facing one another.

“That’s not all, huh?” Scott asks, waggling his eyebrows. It’s easier like this, with Stiles beside him instead of over him - his equal.

“You could see for yourself, if you want,” Stiles offers. Scott’s stomach flips, nerves buzzing. It’s not as if he didn’t know this was coming - he’s been waiting for it for weeks, the day when he’d finally make love to Stiles. Still, it’s nerve-wracking to reach around his body, sleep-warm and smooth, to stroke his hand down Stiles’ spine and and around his hip.

“You’d let me?” Scott asks, his thumb at Stiles’ hipbone, stroking over the thin skin there. Stiles shivers.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he affirms, dipping in to kiss Scott with chapped lips. The kiss is sweet, reminds him of the stretch of caramel candy when Stiles tries to pull away but Scott captures his mouth in another. He kisses until he’s breathless, arms stealing around Stiles in the bed, pulling him close until they’re pressed together at the stomach, the hips, legs tangling under the covers.

The fire has died down in the fireplace some, just a small flame to light the room, but it’s enough to make out the fine details of Stiles’ face - his pronounced cheekbones, his pert nose, the honey gold that his eyes turn in the firelight.

“You’re beautiful,” Scott says under his breath, and Stiles shakes his head, face screwed up.

“You’re the beautiful one,” he argues without heat. “You’re pretty and sweet, you have these gorgeous curls and big, soft eyes and the fullest lips I’ve ever kissed and -”

Scott shuts him up with a kiss, unable to take the flood of flattery spilling from Stiles’ mouth. The words light him up inside, but make him feel squirmy and wrong at the same time. _Beautiful? Me?_ Scott thinks, heart beating faster. He’s not sure if it’s excitement or fear but he pushes through it, letting his hand slide around Stiles’ waist.

“I love you,” Scott whispers when they part, his forehead pressed to Stiles’ own. Their noses brush, the tenderest little touches passing between them as Stiles returns the sentiment.

“I love you more than you can even imagine,” he promises, working a hand into Scott’s curls and squeezing gently, just the slightest tug near Scott’s scalp. It feels so good he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I want -” Scott starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish it. He’s a ball of nerves, too anxious to get the words out, until he thinks of the way Stiles had looked earlier, shivering in the bed as Scott slowly brought warmth back to his body. He could have lost Stiles. If he hadn’t found him, hadn’t known where to look for him - and even more, Stiles could never have found him in the first place. He might never have known the joy of kissing his best friend, of laughing with him again like children, of living with him like old lovers. He licks his lips and tries again, the knowledge that their time is limited weighing on his mind. “I want you, Stiles. I want to - to make love to you.”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Stiles says instantly before kissing him again, deeper and hungrier. Stiles’ want unleashed is like a physical thing in the bed between them, drawing Scott closer, wrapping him up in heat and need. He scrapes his hands down his own body trying to get his briefs off before Stiles stops him and pulls them down with quick, efficient motions, like he’s doing it for the hundredth time instead of the first. He doesn’t notice if Stiles’ hands shake or if he bites his lip, too caught up in his own head, in his want and his anxiety, in the butterflies in his stomach and the ache building in his groin.

“How should we -?” he asks, and Stiles pushes him gently onto his back, taking control without hesitation.

“Let me,” he says, slipping down Scott’s body, laying between his spread thighs. “I’ve been daydreaming about this moment for years.”

Scott sinks back against the pillows, threading his own hands through his hair and tugging slightly to ground himself. He knows it’s coming but that doesn’t keep him from gasping when the heat of Stiles’ mouth surrounds him. He has to struggle not to buck his hips, not to push up into Stiles’ wet warmth. He’s rewarded with a hard suck, and then another, Stiles’ hands on his hips anchoring him.

“Stiles - shh - it’s so -” he blunders, hissing through his teeth as Stiles works his mouth up and down Scott’s cock. He uses his hand on what doesn’t fit in his mouth, stroking Scott with expert pulls while lapping at the head of his cock. Scott looks down to watch as Stiles encircles it with his lips and pulls off with a wet _pop_! He has to squeeze his eyes closed immediately, afraid he’ll come too soon otherwise.

“Do you like it Scotty?” Stiles asks, voice rough. He licks up Scott’s cock and swirls his tongue around it, teasing before sinking back down, not even waiting for a response. Scott moans, overwhelmed with pleasure and aching for release. He threads his fingers through Stiles’ hair, a little longer than he’s ever seen it before and perfect for sinking his hands into. He doesn’t pull or tug, just lets his hands rest there on Stiles’ head, holding him close.

“Yes,” he grits out after too long a pause. “Stiles please - it feels so good, just a little more, please -”

Stiles seems to take his pleading to heart, sucking hard and fast, his hand moving in concert with his mouth to bring Scott close to orgasm. Stiles moans with Scott’s cock buried deep in his mouth, as if he’s too turned on to help himself, like he’s the one being overwhelmed with unspeakable pleasure as opposed to Scott. It’s such a small thing, a quiet noise in his throat, a rumbling vibration around Scott’s cock, but it’s enough to send Scott careening over the edge. He comes hard, muscles tightening all over his body, fingers curling in Stiles’ hair for just a moment before he relaxes back, breathing hard, dizzy with endorphins.

Stiles swallows around him, and Scott can’t help but whine a little at the stimulation - he’s oversensitive, buzzing with leftover pleasure. Stiles pulls away, sits up and crawls over Scott’s body until he’s straddling Scott’s stomach, holding himself up on his knees.

“Too much?” he asks, grinning sharply.

“You’re too much,” Scott says, rosy and soft. He runs his hands down Stiles’ front, caressing him with gentle touches until his fingers reach Stiles’ hips. His cock is hard and dusky pink, precome pooling at the head. Scott licks his lips. “What do you want?”

“You to stay right where you are,” Stiles says, fisting a hand around his cock and stroking it slowly. He leans forward, hand against Scott’s headboard, so his cock is just inches from Scott’s mouth. Scott wants to strain forward, to taste it, to lap at the head and make Stiles feel what he felt moments before, to make him come and know that it was Scott’s doing, his body that gave Stiles pleasure. His head’s already off the pillow when Stiles says, “You sure you want that Scotty? You can just lay back - I don’t mind doing all the work. Hell, I like doing all the work, actually.”

“Want to make you feel good,” Scott says quietly, licking his lips. He opens his mouth just slightly to kiss the head of Stiles’ cock. The skin is velvety smooth under his tongue, the salt-tang of precome bursting in his mouth as he laps at Stiles’ slit. Stiles’ hand continues to stroke his length while Scott focuses his attention on the head, licking and sucking sweetly until Stiles is panting above him, a stream of words pouring from his mouth.

“Feels so fucking good Scott - your mouth is amazing, your lips look so good wrapped around my dick sweetheart - yeah, fuck, Scott, wanna come all over your face baby -”

Stiles’ words make Scott go hot all over. If he hadn’t already come moments before he’d be well on his way now. Scott pulls Stiles in with his hands on Stiles’ hips, rocking him forward so Scott can take more of his cock between his waiting lips. Stiles’ words just get filthier, but Scott can’t keep up with them, to focused on the feeling of Stiles in his mouth, Stiles’ ass under his hands. He sucks hard, rubbing the underside of Stiles’ cock with his tongue, and that’s it - Stiles pulls out and strokes himself with quick, hard pulls until he’s coming all over Scott’s mouth and chin, making a mess of him. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind the mess. Within seconds he’s down on the bed, pulling Scott to him for dirty, salt-sweet kisses that just make everything that much hotter.

“God, Scotty, that was so good,” Stiles says as they break apart, both breathing heavily. Stiles uses a Kleenex from Scott’s nightstand to wipe off his face, as gentle as can be. “Thank you for - for sharing that with me.”

“Did it live up to your fantasies?” Scott asks, grinning. If he knows Stiles at all - and he thinks he does, by now, at least a little - there were a lot of fantasy variation of their first time.

“Even better,” Stiles promises. “Because it was you, and it was real.”

Scott’s grin fades into a shy sort of smile, blood rushing to his cheeks and chest in a flush that he can’t conceal. He looks down, but Stiles’ hand goes to his face, pulls him back up so he can’t hide anymore.

“I love you,” Stiles says, and it’s so easy to believe that he means, _I’ll stay here with you_. The question swirls in Scott’s mind - _would you? Would you stay? Make a life with me here in the wilderness? Or will you still love me when you go?_

He can’t ask, so he kisses instead - deep and strong, for once, unafraid of anything but the freedom to leave.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most fervent apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. It just took a long time to get out, and I'm sorry for that. Thank you all for your lovely comments on this story thus far. Reading them keeps me going when otherwise I'd have probably already abandoned this fic. <3

“It looks pretty bad,” Scott concedes, standing out in the cold in all his many layers, staring at the front of the banged up snowmobile. “We made it this far with it, though. We’ve got to be able to make it to town so Willie can straighten the skis back out.”

“I mean, we could wait until…” Stiles stops and shrugs. “I guess there’s no ‘until’ that’ll make it easier, huh?”

“The ice roads will be ready in a few weeks,” Scott says, careful not to let a hitch creep into his voice. “But we’ll need it before then, to gather wood or… in case we need to get out.”

“Might as well do it today then.” Stiles rubs his gloved hands together and holds them close to his face. “This is going to be a long ride, isn’t it?”

Scott sighs. “It’s definitely not going to be a short one.”

The thirty miles from Scott’s cabin to town take almost three hours to conquer, and by the time Scott’s driving the snowmobile into Willie Edwards’ shop, he’s cold down to his bones despite many layers and plenty of exertion.

“Looks like this one’s going to take a few days,” Willie says, one eye closed as he examines the skis. “I’m going to have to weld a new joint to replace this one.” He kicks at the ski gently and Scott imagines the poor thing just falling off, too abused to continue any longer.

“However long it takes, as long as I can ride it home,” Scott says, teeth chattering.

“You’re gonna need some place to stay overnight, huh kid?” Willie asks, and Scott nods. They packed overnight bags before they left, since he knew repairs might take a few days, and Vesta had trotted alongside the snowmobile for most of the trip, though occasionally she got on the sled in the back. Scott had figured he’d throw himself on the mercy of Mr. Baker, but Willie comes back with an even better offer: “My wife’s sister runs a little bed and breakfast on the other side of town. I could give you a ride if you want.”

“What do you say, Steven?” Scott asks, feeling good about not stuttering even a bit over the name.

“Sounds like we’re on vacay, Scotty,” Stiles grins.

 

The bed and breakfast is a big lodge-style house with a wraparound deck and fireplaces in all the rooms. It’s all but empty, tourist season having already ended or not quite started yet, though there’s one other guest - a writer staying the entire winter on the ground floor. Scott, Stiles, and Vesta make their way to a large room on the second floor with an attached bath and a king sized bed mounded high with handmade quilts.

“Aw yeah,” Stiles says, dropping his bag in the rocking chair by the fireplace. “Not that the cabin isn’t nice and all, but this - this is how you should be spending the winter Scotty. That writer lady has it right.”

“It is nice,” Scott concedes. Vesta seems happy, too, making her way to the carpet in front of the fireplace and settling down instantly for a nap. _She deserves one_ , he thinks, _after walking the better part of thirty miles today_.

He and Stiles strip out of their top layers, then the next, then another, until they’re both left in nothing but their longjohns. There’s an electric kettle with hot chocolate packets on the dresser, and Scott stirs some up, still trying to get warm after having been outside for so long. The chocolate smells good and tastes better, and for a while he and Stiles just sit and drink it quietly, indulging in the warmth of the fire and the drink.

“You know ,” Stiles says finally, breaking the silence. “If you had told me last summer that in December I’d be sitting in a cabin with Scott McCall, drinking hot chocolate and watching the snow fall, I’d have never believed you.”

“I wouldn’t have believed me either,” Scott says with a soft little smile. “I never expected anyone to find me, honestly.”

“I wouldn’t have if Lydia’s algorithm hadn’t picked up the name of your furniture company,” Stiles reminds him, and Scott nods. He’s not sure why he chose Nemeton as a company name, except maybe that he subconsciously wanted to reach out, to see if anyone was still searching for him.

“If you’d told me last summer that my best friend was still looking for me after ten years, I’d never have believed _you_ ,” Scott says quietly.

“Would you have stopped looking for me?” Stiles asks. His light eyes reflect the dancing fire in the fireplace, somber expression highlighted by the way the light jumps over his skin.

“No.” Scott takes another drink of his hot chocolate before adding, “No, I would never have stopped looking for you.”

“Then what makes it so hard to believe I’d look for you for just as long?”

Stiles sets his cup down on the little table between them and leans forward, taking Scott’s face in both his hands. He presses their foreheads together, nuzzling their noses before giving Scott the sweetest kiss he remembers having, all soft, chapped lips and warm breath. Scott’s eyes well up with tears, too overwhelmed with emotion to process them all. Stiles’ love for him takes his breath away, makes his heart beat fast, stops his racing thoughts. A tear slides down his cheek and Stiles wipes it away with the most careful touch, far more gentle than he’d have thought Stiles was even capable of.

“C’mon,” Stiles urges him up, up, and toward the big bed dominating one wall of the room. Scott goes where he’s led, letting Stiles guide him until his head hits the pillows and he realizes Stiles is pulling the covers up over them.

“It’s - it’s only four in the afternoon,” he tries to argue, but even to his own ears he sounds weak and worn out.

“We don’t have to go to sleep if you don’t want to,” Stiles assures him, snuggling in close under the blankets and wrapping his arms around Scott. He’s so warm and comforting, Scott can’t help but relax in his hold. “We could just lay here and kiss if you want.”

Scott gives him a watery smile and presses a kiss to his mouth. It’s easy and familiar to sink into Stiles’ embrace, sigh softly against his lips as they kiss, hand over the control of his body just as surely as he’s handed over control of his heart.

“I want -” Scott starts, breathing already uneven just from minutes of kissing.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Stiles asks, pushing Scott’s hair back away from his face. Stiles’ hands are so careful with him, and he wants more of it - more of Stiles’ gentle touch, his warm hands on Scott’s skin, his lips on Scott’s lips.

“Want your hands,” Scott says quietly, taking one of Stiles’ hands in his own and guiding it down to where his cock is chubbing up through his longjohns. Stiles’ eyes go wide and dark at the same time, and he strokes Scott through the thermal fabric just enough to tease.

“You sure you want that?” Stiles asks quietly. “You were pretty upset -”

“That's why I want it,” Scott says, the words rushing out of him. “I feel so bad, so much. You make me feel good.”

Stiles doesn't answer, just dips his hand into Scott's bottoms and continues his slow stroking, skin on skin. He presses their foreheads together again, mouth open in sympathy as he winds Scott up. Every pull of Stiles’ palm against his skin sends Scott higher, tighter, tension coiling in his thighs and in his belly. His cock grows hard in Stiles’ hand, leaking precome from the slit. Stiles pulls his longjohns down to his knees, and the touch of the cool air against his heated skin takes Scott’s breath away for a moment. His breathing isn’t helped by the kiss Stiles gives him seconds later - pure heat and intensity, like sunlight streaming over his face in the summertime. His chest aches pleasantly, the coiling in his gut getting tighter, the throb of his cock in Stiles’ hand stronger.

“Please,” he asks, and Stiles’ hand stops. He whimpers, so ready to come but still so far from the edge. Stiles reaches for something in his bag by the bed and comes back with his hand slick and messy with lube. The feeling is shocking: cold, slick, foreign but familiar, reminiscent of the days when Scott used to keep lube around for the same reason.

“Feel good baby?” Stiles asks, grinning as he strokes Scott faster, harder.

“Y- yes, oh gah -” Scott stammers out, trying to keep control of himself. Then Stiles slips his fingers down between Scott’s thighs, rubbing slick but gentle over Scott’s hole while his other hand strokes Scott’s cock. The feeling is so much, so overwhelmingly good that tears prick Scott’s eyes again and he has to grip Stiles’ shoulders tightly just to stay in his own skin. He presses their noses together, panting rough and uneven as Stiles slips a slick fingertip inside him, just the barest insertion. It’s not the first time he’s had a finger inside him, but it’s the first time he’s felt it with such intent, the first time he’s thought _Yes, fuck me, please, get inside me_ -

Scott comes hard, spilling over Stiles’ hands and the bed in between them, making a mess of himself and the sheets. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, just pulls his own longjohns down and starts stroking himself hard and fast with one hand while the other stays pressed between Scott’s thighs, fingertip slowly circling inside his hole, relaxing the muscle.

“You want to fuck me?” Scott asks, still breathless.

It’s a good guess, and Stiles’ jaw drops open at his words, his hand moving faster on his cock.

“I - I’ve never done it that way before, but I want to, I want you to,” Scott babbles, and Stiles interrupts him.

“I’d take such - such good care of you sweetheart, I promise, I’d make you feel so good. Wanna finger you for hours, get you nice and stretched for me first, make you come a couple times before I even get inside you - you’d look so good stretched out around me, fuck -” The slick sound of Stiles’ hand on his cock fills the momentary silence between them before Stiles grunts and follows Scott over the edge, coming with a long, low sound.

For a moment Scott does nothing but stare at Stiles, breathing hard and blushing from the tips of his ears all the way down his chest. Stiles slowly pulls his hand out from between Scott’s thighs, and Scott tries not to whine at the loss of it. He hasn’t thought of himself as a particularly sexual person for a long time, but already he wishes Stiles could make good on his dirty promises.

“Feel better now?” Stiles asks, a little flushed himself. Scott nods, his face warm and his eyelids already starting to droop.

“Need to get cleaned up,” he says quietly, not wanting to wake up sticky. He needs to get up, go to their ensuite and hose himself off, but he feels heavy and tired, doesn’t want to move. He whines a little when Stiles rolls off the bed, but a few minutes later he’s back with a wet rag and Scott decides to forgive him as Stiles gently sponges the mess off of his skin and the sheets.

Stiles climbs back into bed, carefully avoiding the wet spot, and kisses Scott’s forehead sweetly.

“You deserve to feel good,” he says quiet but fierce, like he’s expecting an argument. Scott’s heart beats a little faster at the words, but he doesn’t answer back, just tucks his face into Stiles’ chest and wraps an arm around his waist. Maybe if Stiles says it enough, he’ll learn to believe it. Until then, Scott whispers _I love you_ against Stiles’ skin and lets the sound of the crackling fireplace lull him to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

When it’s time to say goodbye to their little room in the lodge, Scott wishes desperately that they didn’t have to. He and Stiles spent three beautiful days doing almost nothing beyond making love and eating, and as Scott mounts the snowmobile to take it back home, he feels a pang in his chest at the idea. It doesn’t last, though - before long he’s thinking fondly of cooking in his kitchen, working on his projects, cuddling Stiles in his bed in front of the fire. The trip home is much swifter than the one they took to town, even with the sled loaded up with a few last minute items from the general store, one of which Stiles has hidden with a sneaky sort of skill that Scott remembers from high school. Vesta runs along beside them for a while, and then hops on the sled with their packages to ride the rest of the way home. Stiles’ body is pressed comfortably to his own, warming his back through the layers of clothes, and Scott is smiling when he pulls the snowmobile into the yard in front of the cabin. 

“Home sweet home,” he says, reaching for the boxes on the sled to bring them inside. Stiles bats his hands away and picks them up himself, though it would be easier for Scott to carry them. Even if he can’t shift or heal, he’s still stronger than Stiles, still has better balance in the snow. Stiles doesn’t seem to care, though, tromping through the snow and ice while carrying the two boxes with ease. Scott’s heart does a little flip as he watches, enamored with the way Stiles looks even with layers of clothing on, the way he moves with so much confidence and bravado. 

Unpacking is the work of just a few minutes, including whatever it is Stiles is hiding. Christmas is just days away, and Scott’s sure it has something to do with that, so he doesn’t go sniffing around where he’s obviously not intended to. He has his own surprise up his sleeve - or, well, in his workshop, ready for the big day. 

 

Christmas morning dawns cold and dark, like many mornings around it. Scott rises with the alarm clock, making his way to the kitchen where Stiles is already busy making breakfast. Scott slips up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, where Stiles’ hair has gotten long and curls just slightly. 

“Merry Christmas,” Scott says sleepily, yawning afterward into the place between Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles laughs, body shaking a little. 

“Merry Christmas Scotty.” He turns in Scott’s arms to kiss him, not caring that Scott’s still bleary-eyed. It’s a good kiss, warms Scott from the tips of his toes to his gut, leaves him wanting just a little when Stiles pulls away. 

“Are we exchanging gifts today?” Scott asks, even though he suspects he knows the answer. Stiles has been quiet, secretive for the last two days,  even though he was obviously trying not to be. 

“Why? Did you get me something?” Stiles asks back, eyes twinkling. 

“I made you something,” Scott says, flushing a little. 

Stiles’ face goes warm and soft-looking, and he smiles dazzlingly before saying, “Alright,  breakfast first, then gifts.” 

Breakfast seems to drag on forever, much like it did when he was a young child. By the time they finish their food Scott’s itching to get out to the workshop where Stiles’ gift is waiting. He waits, though, until Stiles has scraped the last of the food from his plate into his mouth and sighed in a somewhat satisfactory way. 

“Ready now?” Scott asks, laughing. 

“Yeah, ready now. Go get it, whatever it is.” Stiles pushes him away from the table playfully before gathering up their dishes to put them in the sink. Scott bundles up quickly - he’s just going to the workshop, but there’s no telling what could happen once he goes outside, so he always wears at least his heavy coat and ski pants. He and Vesta trek to the workshop together, weaving in and out of the places that the snow is beaten down some, shallower, or shoveled out. By the time he gets back into the cabin with his prize, his fingers and nose are so cold they ache, but he’s too excited to care. 

“Me first,” Scott says, coming back in triumphantly with a polished wooden box in his hands. “I mean, you open mine first.” 

“If you say so,” Stiles says, reaching out with grabby hands for it. It doesn’t have a bow or anything on it, but Scott’s proud of the shiny hinges on the box, the pretty gold-tone latch that he’d been saving for just such a project. Stiles opens the box carefully, like he knows something precious is inside, and picks up one of the pieces with wonder in his eyes. 

“A chess set?” he asks, voice soft. 

“Travel chess,” Scott says, grinning. “I carved it myself. I thought - you’re on the road a lot, so I thought maybe it would come in handy. You could… teach me how to play.”  _ While you’re still here _ , he doesn’t add.

Stiles looks flabbergasted, picking up each of the miniatures, carved in loving detail by Scott, and examining them in the soft firelight. 

“Scott, this is incredible. How did you manage this?” 

“Working before you woke up, mostly,” Scott smiles. “Do - do you like it?” 

“I love it. I love you,” Stiles says, putting the chess set aside and coming to take Scott’s face in both his hands, pull him close for a kiss. “You’re amazing. Thank you.” 

Scott leans into his hands, his kiss, feeling settled and loved and  _ grateful _ in a way he barely recognizes. 

“Okay, so what’d you get me?” Scott asks, pulling away after a moment so he won’t just keep kissing Stiles until the fire burns low. “I know you were hiding something on the way back from town. What was it?” 

“Caught that, did ya?” Stiles asks, grinning. “Good. Because it was a total fake-out. I didn’t get you anything.” 

Scott slumps a little, confused. 

“Oh,” he says softly. “That - that’s alright. You just being here -” 

“What I did,” Stiles interrupts, “is get your mom something, a month ago. I got her a burner phone and told her to keep it on her at all times.” 

“A burner phone?” Scott asks, still confused, even more so by the abruptness of Stiles’ interruption. “Why would Mom need a burner phone?” 

“To evade whatever forces of evil may be watching her phone lines. They can’t know who’s calling if they haven’t tapped the line, Scotty.” 

Stiles reaches behind him and pulls out Scott’s sat phone,  the one he only uses to check in with Deaton or Mr. Baker. He never thought he’d get to use it for this, never hoped to hear his mother’s voice again. His hands shake as he gently pushes in the numbers that Stiles tells him, and his breath catches as the line begins to ring. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles whispers. “She loves you.” 

He knows Stiles means well, but it’s been - it’s been ten years. It’s been far too long for any mother to have to hold out hope for her child. It’s been too long for anyone to still be thinking of him, even, he thinks. He doesn’t want to hurt her more by drudging up old memories, especially when he can’t come back, and - 

“Hello?” Mom’s voice comes over the phone. “Hello, Scott? Is it you?” 

“Hi Mom,” he says quietly. Stiles gives him a thumbs up and sneaks out of the living room, into the bedroom where he closes the door. Scott’s alone with his mother for the first time in ten years and all he can think to say is, “H- how are you?” 

“Scott, oh my God,” Mom says, voice thick with emotion. She starts crying almost immediately, but he can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Good, baby. I’m good. How are you?” 

“I’m okay,” Scott assures her. “I - um - Stiles found me. I can’t tell you where I am, but -” 

“That’s okay sweetheart,” she tells him, sniffling the whole while. “It’s just so good to hear your voice. I can’t believe it. Tell me everything you can. I - I just want to hear you talk.” 

“Well, I -” Scott stumbles wondering what’s okay to tell her. “I talk to Deaton sometimes. He seems… Like Deaton, mostly. I have a dog.” 

“You have a dog? What’s her name?” 

“Her name’s Vesta. I found her near where I live and she, she sort of adopted me,” he tells her, reaching down to scritch at Vesta’s ears as he speaks. Vesta barks, just once, and Mom starts crying all over again. 

“Sounds like you needed her,” she says softly. “So Stiles found you, huh? I always knew he would someday.” 

“Well, he looked in the wrong place for a really long time first,” Scott tries to laugh, but it comes out choked and harsh around the lump in his throat, the burning in his nose. He squeezes his eyes closed, fighting the tears that are rushing to his eyes. “Mama, I miss you so much.” 

“I miss you too,  _ mijo _ ,” Mom says softly, weeping. He hears someone in the background and pricks his ears up to try and catch their voice, but then a door shuts and Mom says, “Scott, listen, I don’t know what Deaton told you about whatever danger there was to you here, but I - I’m glad you’re safe. Wherever you are, just stay safe, baby.” 

“What’s safe worth if I never see anyone I love again?” Scott asks, his fears spilling out to her the way he knew they would. He sniffs, trying to hold it all back, but it’s no use - it’s already out there. “What sort of life am I living if I can’t even call you to tell you - to tell you I love you, or that I miss you, or Merry Christmas?” 

“Merry Christmas,” Mom says, and she’s laughing while she cries. “This is - this is the best Christmas present anyone’s ever given me.” 

“Better than - better than the cast iron skillet I got you when I was 9?” Scott asks, her laughter catching. He feels hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time. 

“Even better,  _ mijo _ .” Mom clears her throat. He can hear her wiping her face with something, probably a take out napkin if he knows anything about her at all, and she takes a few deep breaths to center herself. “I know you probably can’t talk long.”

“I’m trying to avoid thinking about the passage of time,” Scott laughs, sniffling. 

“Before you have to go, I need to tell you - I need to tell you something I should have told you long ago.” She takes another steadying breath, and Scott cuts in. 

“Mom, you don’t have to -” 

“Yes, I do. Scott, you are the strongest, sweetest, most remarkable man I’ve ever known - and I know that hasn’t changed in the ten years since I got to see your face. Your life is worth living no matter what you have to do to live it. Just knowing you’re alive out in the world gives me more peace and comfort than you could ever know. But I would do anything - anything, Scott, if it meant I could see you again.” 

“I know Mama,” he says, tears welling up and spilling over all over again. “I want to see you too. I know. I - I don’t know what to say. I can’t make any promises.” 

“I know you can’t,” she shushes him, all understanding and patience. “But if there’s a way I know you’ll find it. That’s who you are, and nothing could change that.” 

“I love you Mama,” Scott says, as Stiles peeks out of the bedroom, concern written all over his face. “I - I need to go, I think, but I - keep the phone. I’ll try to call you again if I can. I’m so sorry it took so long. I love you. I love you.” 

“I love you,” she tells him. “Remember what I said. It’s worth it. Tell Stiles thank you for me.” 

“I will. I love you.” 

“I love you, Scott,” she says softly. The line goes dead soon after, neither of them willing to say the word “goodbye.” Before Scott’s even lowered the phone to his side, Stiles is there, wrapping him up in a hug. The dam inside him breaks, tears spilling over onto Stiles’ collar, wetting the fabric of his shirt, streaming down both Scott’s cheeks. For a long time, he doesn’t know how long, they just stand there in the living room, holding one another and shaking as Scott cries his eyes out. 

“She said to tell you thank you,” he says finally, as the sobs subside. Stiles looks a little misty-eyed himself, and he nods. 

“It was - it was the only thing I could think of that you’d want. I know how much you miss her.” 

“So much,” Scott breathes. He takes a moment, trying to calm himself down, and  pushes Stiles away just a little so he can look him in the face. 

“Stiles,” he says quietly. “I - I think it’s time I told you. Why I’m here.” 


	24. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for descriptions of violent torture, simulated drowning, minor character death, and an emetophobia warning.

Scott awakens to a throbbing head and cotton mouth. He only realizes that he’s tied up when he tries to stretch out, wolfsbane-laced ropes binding his wrists and his feet.  He can’t see them, but he can smell the flowers, feel their power holding him in, chaining him down. There’s something over his head, some sort of thick material he can’t see through, and his breath comes shorter when he thinks about how close the air is inside the bag. 

“Hello?” he asks, hoping for someone or something to talk to, to reason with. He’s good at that, can usually talk his way out of most things without resorting to a fight. “Is - is there someone I can talk to?” 

Maybe it’s naivete. He’s just graduated high school, after all - this was supposed to be the carefree summer of his life, leaving most of the supernatural patrolling up to Liam and Hayden. He thinks, maybe, if he can just get out of these ropes, get the bag off his head, he can go back to the Plan - UC Davis in the fall, leaving Beacon Hills with its supernatural terror behind, living a normal life. 

“Hello?” he tries again, before he feels a solid whack to the side of his face. His head cracks to the side, jaw aching, cheekbone throbbing. He can’t even rub it, hands tied as they are, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from making a noise. 

“Shut up, brat,” a woman’s voice says. It’s far more nasal than any voice he knows. 

“Who are you?” he tries, risking another hit - and he gets it, harder this time, with something besides an open hand. Maybe a book, he thinks dimly as his chair tilts to the side and he falls to the ground. His shoulder catches the brunt of his weight, and he says a little prayer of thanks that there was nothing sharp on the ground for him to fall on, just - well, dirt, he thinks. It has the feel of packed dirt, the smell of it, from what he can make out through the bag and the wolfsbane. 

“Feel better?” he asks, genuinely. Whoever it is that’s hitting him obviously needs something - 

_ A swift kick to the ass is what she needs _ , he hears a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Stiles, but dismisses it.

And maybe if he changes tactics he can get her to tell him what exactly it is she wants from him.

The bag shifts on his head, thrown out of place when his chair fell over, and he’s able to hear more clearly. They’re obviously somewhere in the preserve, he thinks, by the sounds of wildlife outside - and a lot of wildlife, too. He hears animals calling to each other, wishes he could tell what they mean by it. Does his captor mean them harm too, or is he the one they’re worried about? Scott wonders, dazed, if he could call out to them for help. 

Suddenly, something shifts. The animals go quiet. He can hear voices outside, scuffling noises and something else - a crack, like someone stepped on a loud branch. Scott lifts his head, trying to hear better, and his captor screams - a short, sharp sound. Then, instantly, hands are at the ties around his wrists, freeing him from his bonds. He pulls the bag off his head and takes a deep breath of hot, close night air. As soon as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he makes out the forms of Deaton and Marin Morrell, both dressed in all black. Marin has a knife in her hand the length of his forearm with a jagged blade, edged in blood, and Deaton has a cut on his forehead. He has a feeling whatever hit Deaton isn’t going to be hitting anything at all anymore. 

“Thanks,” he gets out, freeing his feet. He stands, a little dizzy from the effects of the wolfsbane. Deaton supports him on one side, leading him out of the tent his captor held him in. He looks at her where she’s lying on the floor, eyes closed, cloud of blonde hair surrounding her face. She looks middle aged, like she could be friends with his mother, and his heart hurts for her before Deaton prods him forward, tells him, “We have to move, Scott.” 

They move, fast and abrupt through the trees. Branches whip past, snagging his clothes, his skin. It’s not hard to see in the dark, but there’s an unnatural fog over the preserve and he struggles to guide them through it without tripping over the many limbs littering the ground. There’s no time for stealth, Deaton says, pushing Scott to run faster. Marin follows them at a couple of yards, and before long, Scott’s picking up the pace so that Deaton lags behind him. 

“Meet me at the clinic,” Deaton says softly, but Scott’s ears pick it up. “Don’t go home, Scott. Call no one. I’ll tell you why - when we get there.” 

Scott runs.

 

The clinic is empty when Scott arrives, but despite Deaton’s lack of super speed or agility, it still doesn’t take him long to get there. Marin follows close behind him, her knife now sheathed at her waist. 

“Were you followed?” she asks quickly, scanning the perimeter. 

“I - I don’t think so,” Scott says. 

“This is important, Scott,” Deaton breaks in. “We have very little time to do what needs to be done. Did you hear anyone behind you, sense anyone at all as you came in?” 

“No, I was alone,” Scott says, more sure of himself.

“Then come into the back. We have the room already set up.” Deaton leads the way, Marin close behind, leaving Scott to bring up the rear. He scans the room as he leaves, looking for signs of their pursuers, but there’s no one there. 

“What’s the set-up for?” Scott asks, glancing at the candles that Marin’s lighting, the herbs Deaton has spread on the ground of his spacious office. The desk is pushed to the wall, and a large circle is drawn with chalk on the floor. 

“We need to de-bug you,” Deaton says, abnormally frank. “Make sure you haven’t got any magical traces on you before we take our next steps.” 

“Are you going to tell me who that woman was?” Scott asks, patient. He knows Stiles doesn’t get along with Deaton, but he respects and loves his mentor despite how long it tends to take him to spit things out. 

“That woman,” Deaton says quietly, “was Mary Webb, an initiate in the Circle of Ten.” Deaton herds him into the chalk circle and starts laying herbs down around it, muttering under his breath. Marin finishes with the candles and joins him, a large book open on the desk. 

Scott stands and waits. He’s been the subject of magic often enough by now to know that he’ll feel something - even if he’s not sure what it is - when it happens. After a few moments there’s a strange feeling, like he’s been under a sheet and it’s suddenly stripped away from him. He shivers. 

“So what’s the Circle of Ten?” 

“Witches,” Marin says vehemently. He thinks that’s a little unfair, considering she’s a druid and all. 

“Especially vicious witches,” Deaton says more measuredly. “Who are looking for a way to unleash the power of the Nemeton and use it to enslave a good portion of humanity and the supernatural alike.” 

“And how do they plan to do that?” Scott asks, with a sinking feeling that he knows the answer. 

“Do you really want to know the answer to that, Scott?” Marin asks, and Scott feels the prickle of claws at the back of his neck. He breathes in deep and nods - whatever it is she wants to show him, he’s better off knowing about than not. 

“I’m ready.” 

Deaton sighs, sounding older than his years. “I’m not so sure about that.” 

It’s the last thing Scott hears before he falls into blackness. 

 

_ He’s been here for days. The cell is sickly sweet with the smell of rotten food. He won’t eat anything they give him, won’t drink anything but water he watches them pour straight from the sink. He knows he’s going to die here but he can choose how. He can starve to death, rather than be their willing sacrifice to the slaughter.  _

_ “You know it’s going to hurt just as bad if you’re hungry, right?” one asks him, and the alpha growls at her in response.  _

_ “Mary,” she says to the other one, the blonde one that seems to do all their dirty work. “Go in the cell and clean it up. It smells like shit down here.”  _

_ Mary looks like she wishes she could growl herself, but she opens the cell with a flick of her wrist and some muttered words that the alpha can barely hear. He’d make his escape, but there are wolfsbane-infused chains around all his limbs. He’s weak and tired, he’d never make it out of their compound alive. Besides, the longer he stays here, the longer he can distract them from looking for his pack.  _

 

_ “If you won’t talk, she’s just going to kill you faster,” a dark-haired witch with a nasty scar down the side of her face says, tossing him easily back in the cell. By now he’s broken down and eaten their food. He’s starving, his body struggling to regenerate without fuel, without rest, with the constant exposure to wolfsbane. The cuts on his abdomen don’t heal like they should. They get infected, weep poison onto his skin. He smells terrible, offensive to even their blunt human noses, and they come in and spray him down like a dog one day. He nearly howls as the water tears open his scabbed-over skin, cutting him fresh. It’s the worst he’s ever felt, and he knows this is just going to get worse.  _

 

_ “Where’s the rest of the pack, dog?” Rowena, their leader, commands of him. She’s a tall, stately figure in black robes. The rest of them look like they’re playing at witchcraft most of the time, but this one - she’s horrifically good at what she does.  _

_ “I’ll never - never help you find them,” the alpha says, trembling under the pressure of her magic. It rips at him, tears at his skin, presses down like a body of water filling his lungs. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he can do is feel, feel, pain resounding through his limbs, until he’s just one huge exposed nerve. He gasps for air, thinking this is it - this is it -  _

 

Scott comes back gasping. He doubles over and vomits into the trashcan next to Deaton’s desk, ridding himself of his dinner along with the stench of rotting meat that hangs in his nose. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. 

“The witches,” he says as soon as he can speak. “They - they killed him. The alpha -” 

“The one these claws belonged to? Yes, they did,” Marin says softly. 

“I’m sorry you had to experience that Scott.” Deaton hands him a towel that he produced from one of the cabinets. He sounds genuinely sorry. 

“Are they - are they after my pack?” Scott thinks instantly of Kira, Malia, of Liam and Lydia being tortured by that woman - of Stiles, who isn’t superhuman at all. His stomach turns again, and he has to retch over the trash can one more time. 

“Not this time,” Deaton says gently. “They figured out that they can get what they need out of just an alpha - a true alpha, even better. The purer the sacrifice, the greater the magic.” 

“So they want me,” Scott says, heart  racing. He can still feel the way the magic burned through his veins as the other alpha, the way it filled up his lungs. “They want to kill me.” 

“Yes, Scott,” Deaton says, and he sounds - he sounds so, so sad. “This time, son, you have to run.” 


	25. Chapter 25

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” 

“I was scared to,” Scott admits. “I - I didn’t want you to think less of me. Less of me than you already did, anyway. And talking about them…” 

He trails off, unwilling to talk about the fear that the alpha’s memories seared into him, the way it felt to be starving, to be torn open at the witch’s hand. Stiles looks stunned as he sits there on the sofa, head in his hands. 

“Witches?” he asks, a disbelieving note in his voice. “You’re here because a group of witches - what, threatened to sacrifice you?” 

“Not just any witches,” Scott says, feeling a little defensive. He lowers his voice, like someone could hear him way out here. “The Circle of Ten. Ten powerful witches led by this woman named Rowena who wanted to split me in half and -” 

“I get it,” Stiles says, looking faintly ill. “You couldn’t have said anything? Warned any of us?” 

“There wasn’t any time,” Scott says. He swirls his fingers through the rug he’s sitting on in front of the fireplace, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the room. “And besides - we wanted to make sure…” 

“Make sure of what?”

“Make sure that none of you had any information that could be tortured out of you.” Scott shivers, thinking about it. He’s never had any delusions about what could have happened. Rowena could have done anything, could have attacked his mother, his friends, his teachers - anyone who might have given her a clue as to where he was. Deaton promised they’d be protected, but Scott had never really gotten the particulars how. With Stiles here, he wonders how far that protection extends, if it’s been keeping him safe throughout his time on the road with Braeden, or if he’s just been exceptionally lucky to not get caught. 

There’s silence for a few moments, only the crackling of the fireplace and Vesta’s breathing filling the air. When Stiles breaks it, it’s with a question Scott didn’t expect. 

“Did you say the name Mary Webb?” 

“Um, yeah. She was the initiate that had me captive. She was supposed to deliver me to Rowena that night, I think, so they could perform some ritual that would -” 

“That would enslave a good deal of humanity, yeah,” Stiles says, but his mind is obviously somewhere else. “This Mary… was she blonde? Young?” 

“Pretty young, yeah,” Scott says. “And I’m pretty sure she was blonde. It was ten years ago, though, there’s no telling what she looks like now -” 

“No, I already know,” Stiles says. “I met her in Mexico. Nearly shot her. Now I wish Braeden had let me.” 

“Stiles!” Scott exclaims, though he doesn’t know exactly why - he knows Stiles has killed people, has had to in his… line of work. Still, he doesn’t like hearing about it. 

“She wanted to kill you, Scott!” Stiles raises his voice, and Scott flinches backward. In an instant, Stiles is on the floor with him, wrapping his arms around Scott’s shoulders and pulling him close. “I’m sorry - I just - she wanted you dead. If I could wipe every one of them off the planet I would in a heartbeat, if only so you wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.” 

“I wouldn’t - wouldn’t want you to do that,” Scott says, overwhelmed. Tears spring to his eyes, feelings spilling over after an exhausting day. Exhausting, but good - talking to his mother, unburdening himself of his secret, being held by Stiles. It’s only mid-afternoon now, but he can feel weariness pulling at him as he sinks into Stiles’ embrace. 

“I know you wouldn’t want it,” Stiles says softly. “But I’d do it anyway. That’s what I do. I hunt down bad guys, and I call your mom, and I show up in wintertime. And you love me anyway, don’t you Scott?”  

“I do,” Scott says, just as soft. “I love you.” 

Stiles wipes a tear from his cheek and plants a kiss on his forehead. “And I love you too.” 

They stay on the floor until Scott’s bones ache with it and he has to pull Stiles up, up, off the rug. He goes to head for the bedroom but Stiles stops him. 

“You usually take a bath when you get upset, right?” he asks, and Scott has to think about it for a second before he nods - yes, that’s what he does, he lets the water wash away the remnants of his feelings, enjoys the warmth and the comfort of being in the shower or the tub. “Then c’mon. Come take a bath with me.” 

Scott strips down as Stiles fills the tub, steam rising from the hot water in the big old clawfoot. Stiles gets in first, patting his lap, and Scott settles between his thighs, back pressed to Stiles’ front. He rests his head on Stiles’ shoulder, being held comfortably by the embrace of the water and Stiles’ arms at the same time. 

Stiles is silent. It isn’t a characteristic Scott would have chosen for him ten years ago, but it’s something he’s gotten used to now. The New Stiles, his Stiles, is quieter, more restful, less obnoxious. Scott sort of misses the obnoxiousness - it was so much a part of life, and it’s a little sad to think that it’s likely gone forever, Stiles having finally grown out of it. Scott pushes the thought away, not eager to court any more sadness today, and revels in the sensation of being between Stiles’ thighs, being pressed against him in the tub, instead. He turns over, slow and careful so he doesn’t slop water over the side of the tub, so his belly is pressed to Stiles’. 

“Feeling better?” Stiles asks, and licks his lips in a way Scott can’t help but watch. It makes him want. 

“Enough that I’m suddenly remembering all the things you can do in a bathtub,” Scott says, a little smile spreading over his face. 

“Honestly the shower might be easier,” Stiles shrugs, “but far be it from me to stop you from doing something you want to do.” 

The idiom strikes Scott as funny - after all, Stiles was usually the one trying to get Scott to do things he shouldn’t. He lets a little giggle bubble up, a joyful sort of sound, and kisses Stiles’ chapped lips with it still in his mouth. Stiles kisses back sweetly, not rushing or pushing, letting Scott take control. It’s a heady experience,  knowing that he can have this, taking it for himself. After so many years of deprivation, it’s an oasis. 

“I want you,” Scott says quietly, though he’s sure that’s obvious by now. He wants to say it, though, to be heard. “I want -” 

“What do you want, Scott?” Stiles asks, rubbing his hands up Scott’s back, allowing warm water to cascade down his skin. It feels good, feels real compared to an entire day of feeling between realities. 

“Want to feel you come,” Scott gets out, one hand slipping down between Stiles’ thighs to stroke his cock. He’s not hard yet, just starting to chub up in the warm water, but Scott knows it won’t take long. Especially once he says, “Want to feel your fingers in me.” 

Stiles grunts, a short, low sound, and presses another kiss to his mouth. He looks overwhelmed with the thought, like he can’t imagine anything better than getting off with his fingers in Scott’s ass, his cock in Scott’s hand. 

“We need - something -” he says, looking around before his eyes catch the conditioner bottle Scott keeps on the shelf near the tub. Stiles grabs it and spreads conditioner over his fingers, sloppy with it. Scott giggles, but the sound is cut off as soon as he feels the slick pressure of Stiles’ fingers circling his hole.

“Are you serious?” he asks, though the effect is ruined by him moaning right afterward as Stiles slips just a fingertip inside him. 

“I’ve definitely used worse,” Stiles says with a wink, and slicks the rest of his finger into Scott’s body. It’s still new, figuring out how they fit together this way, but Scott loves it, relishes the feeling of something filling him up. They haven’t moved further than fingers yet, but he knows someday soon he’ll be ready for more, ready for Stiles to fill him completely, and the thought makes his cock twitch up against his stomach, hard already. 

“Feels good,” Scott moans softly, Stiles’ finger rubbing at his prostate in a way that makes the inside of his eyelids look like the night sky outside, full of stars. He breathes through it as Stiles slips another finger inside him,  the stretch a low ache in his belly. 

“God, you’re gorgeous Scott,” Stiles says, just as soft. It feels like there’s no one else in the world, just the two of them in this tub in the middle of nowhere. Scott arches his back, his hand tightening around Stiles’ cock as Stiles’ fingers thrust deeper inside him, stretching him relentlessly. Scott gives Stiles’ cock a messy stroke, hand uncoordinated. He presses his forehead to Stiles’ neck, gasping as another of Stiles’ fingers flirts with his rim, teasing at it in little pushes but never quite pushing in. 

“Fuck me,” Scott begs, so turned on he aches with it, wants to sit on Stiles’ cock and bounce, wants Stiles to pin him down on the bathroom rug and fuck him with long, steady strokes of those slim hips. 

“Soon,” Stiles promises. That’s what he said back at the lodge in town, too - “soon,” as if Scott wasn’t hurting for him now. 

“Today,” Scott tries, though he knows it’s useless. With the way his cock is leaking against his stomach, he wouldn’t make it to being fucked anyway - he’d come before Stiles ever got inside him. 

“Not today,” Stiles tells him, and smiles when Scott whimpers. “Soon, though - some day when we don’t have anything else going on, when it’s just us hanging out here at the house and we have all day to lay around and get each other off. Then I’ll fuck you.” 

Scott squirms, sits up so he can kiss Stiles’ mouth as he jerks unsteadily at his cock. He’s got little momentum like this, and even less finesse, but it doesn’t seem to matter from the sounds Stiles is making. His hips roll up, fucking into Scott’s hand, and Scott squeezes more firmly around Stiles’ hot, hard flesh. His own cock jumps in response when Stiles reaches for it, wraps his broad hand around it and strokes in time with the way his fingers are pushing in and out of Scott’s hole. 

“So hot sweetheart,” Stiles practically oozes, and Scott’s heart trips over itself to hear Stiles call him that, to be called something so - so sweet. “Go on and come for me. Want to feel you on my fingers when you do.” 

Scott groans, burying his face in Stiles’ neck once more. He breathes in short, gasping breaths, his body screwing up tight as Stiles rubs his prostate and strokes his cock in tandem. He moans, a short, cut-off sound before he falls over the edge, coming over Stiles. Stiles wraps his hand around Scott’s own on his cock, guiding Scott in his strokes. It only takes a handful before Stiles is moaning through his own orgasm, adding to the mess on his belly. 

Scott takes a few moments to catch his breath as Stiles gently eases his fingers out of Scott’s hole. It feels odd, being empty, and he can’t help but whine about it a little. Stiles laughs at him, a sweet, gentle sound, but still a laugh. 

“C’mon,” Stiles says, helping him sit up and giving him another sweet kiss for his trouble. “Let’s hose off in the shower, and then go get in bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out.” 

“I didn’t realize you tired out so easy,” Scott says with a grin, splashing at him gently, watching the mess on Stiles’ skin slowly be eroded by the bathwater. Stiles grimaces and fakes a loud yawn that turns into a real yawn halfway through. Scott can’t help but laugh. 

“You wear me out, sweetheart,” Stiles says, and Scott feels that little skip of his heart again. He leans forward, presses their foreheads together and rubs Scott’s nose with his own. “I’ll give you about a hundred years to quit.” 

“That sounds like enough time,” Scott says. _ Time, time, time, if only they had that much time.   _

Stiles grins. “We’ll reassess when we get there.” 


	26. Chapter 26

Although it seems to Scott like everything must be different now, now that Stiles knows, time flows the same way it always has. The first time the sun rises over the horizon again after the darkness of deep winter, Scott’s shocked. And then he realizes it’s New Year’s Eve.

“Did you know you’ve been here over two months already?” Scott asks casually, thinking of how it won’t be long at all before the ice roads are solid. Winter will stick around for months yet, and January is upon them with its deep freeze and bitter temperatures and weak sunlight for just a few hours a day. 

“Feels like longer,” Stiles admits, grinning over his cup of coffee. They’re settled in front of the fire on Scott’s hard sofa - the one he loves, but wonders  if he should replace, should Stiles ever decide to come back… 

Best not to think about it. 

“We’ve got to get firewood soon,” Scott says, feeling lazy and unrepentant about it. They’ve already made love this morning, holding one another close under the covers as Stiles’ mouth ran away with him, making all sorts of filthy promises. Scott shivers as he remembers it, focusing in on Stiles’ lips as he sips from his cup. There’s an ache deep in his muscles, a beautiful one, one that makes him smile and flush as Stiles catches his eye and winks. 

“I’ve got some wood for ya,” Stiles jokes, and Scott can’t help but laugh out loud. It’s just so - well,  _ Stiles _ . 

“I’m serious,” Scott says, still laughing. He can’t seem to stop, getting tickled all over again every time he tries. For a minute he’s afraid he’ll need to dig out the inhaler he keeps around still, but then Stiles leans over and kisses his laughing mouth, and he instantly falls into it, chest aching for a different reason. 

“We’ll go this afternoon,” Stiles says softly, pulling Scott close, setting their cups aside. He maneuvers them until Scott’s resting on top of him, head on Stiles’ chest. He can hear Stiles’ heart beating,  _ tha-bump, tha-bump, tha-bump _ , pushing blood through his veins. Stiles’ hand strokes through his too-long hair, whisking the curls out of Scott’s face. Scott catches it and presses a kiss to his palm. For this morning, everything is right with the world, and he doesn’t think about the ice roads anymore. 

 

It’s bright and cold when they finally make it out of the cabin, and though Scott knows the light won’t last long, he’s happy to have it for the time being. He brings an electric lantern just in case, but the headlight on the snowmobile should be plenty of light to guide them home if they outstay the sun, and Scott’s happy to be getting out in the daylight again. It’s less than an hour before the cold starts wearing on them both, though.

“Why couldn’t we have stayed at home again?” Stiles asks, and Scott secretly agrees with him. They trundle through the woods gathering up fallen sticks and branches, the snowmobile already laden heavily with wood Scott salvaged from a felled tree. Sometimes that happens, trees rot and split, leaving dead wood that’s easy to process and bring home. He likes it better than cutting down trees that are still alive, still flourishing. Even though he’s very good at it by now, cutting down a live tree always makes him feel bad. 

“We only need a little more,” Scott promises. It’s true - the sled behind the snowmobile is already piled high. They had to drive out further into the woods than they have before, but that’s not unusual for this time of winter - the wood closer to home is already used up, and now he has to forage deeper in the forest. Scott scouts out a little further from the sled, the frozen ground crunching under his feet. That’s when he sees them - claw marks on the trunk of one of the nearby trees, fresh-looking and high up, higher than his head. 

“Stiles?” he calls, a little worried - and there’s no answer. Scott turns back, crunching through the snow as quietly as he can while still moving quickly. His heart speeds up, beating hard and fast in his chest, so loud he’s almost nervous that it’s ringing through the forest. He breathes in short, sharp breaths, the cold air stinging his throat. When he gets back to the area he left Stiles in, there’s no one there. He calls out again, voice shaken. “Stiles, where are you?” 

“Scott, don’t move,” Stiles says, voice cold and flat. Scott immediately turns toward it, but Stiles repeats himself. “Scotty, please, don’t -” 

“Stiles?” Scott looks through the trees and - there, thirty feet away, there’s Stiles, and - 

The bear. 

Scott goes stock still, petrified. He’s heard about the damage bears can do, has seen news reports of hikers that ended up torn to shreds at the claws of one of the mighty beasts. The one standing in front of Stiles on its back legs is big and lumbering, though thinner than Scott’s used to seeing them. It must be hungry, he thinks, wondering why it isn’t still asleep for the winter. He almost laughs at himself, wondering such things when a bear is standing ten feet from Stiles, watching him with every shift of movement Stiles makes. The amusement doesn’t last long.

“Scott,” Stiles says quietly. “Get on the snowmobile. You can make it if you -” 

“No,” Scott says immediately. “No way. We’re not doing that -” 

“Scott, we don’t have a choice.” 

The bear falls down on all fours, growls at Stiles as he backs up further, until his back hits a tree. If he runs, it’s all over - there’s no way they can outrun a bear. It’ll tear them both to pieces. Scott says a silent prayer of thanks that he left Vesta back at home, and then shudders - how many days will it be before someone decides to come looking for him? How long before someone discovers her in the house, hungry or - 

He can’t think about Vesta now. Not when there’s a bear stalking closer to Stiles. They don’t have anything to distract it with, no food, no fire, no weapons - nothing to scare it off. 

_ Maybe  _ something _ to scare it off _ , a small voice says in the back of Scott’s mind. He blinks, trying to focus on the feeling growing inside him, the certainty of power rather than the terror. It’s a feeling he hasn’t had in a long time, one he wasn’t sure he could still access honestly. He hasn’t shifted since that day in the woods with Nick, wouldn’t let himself at first, and now he’s unsure if he’s even capable of it. He takes a step forward, crunching through the hard-packed snow, his boots heavy on the ground. Stiles puts a hand out behind him, signalling for Scott to stop, but Scott keeps moving, covering the ground in short, sharp strides. 

The bear swings around to watch him approach, putting Stiles out of his sightline for a moment. Stiles doesn’t move, too scared or too aware that moving will just draw its attention back to him, one or the other. Scott can’t blame him either way. His heart is pounding, his chest hurts, he can barely see through dry eyes that refuse to blink. 

“Stiles, when I signal, you need to run okay?” Scott says quietly. “Run back to the sled. And if you can, get it started.” 

“You’re not seriously telling me to leave without you, are you?” Stiles asks, voice angry. Scott wishes he could see his face, could kiss him one more time, could hold him close and apologize for - well, a lot of things. Bringing him here to begin with, not being there when Stiles needed him,  not being the man Stiles thought he was. The guilt floods his mind for a moment before he shakes it off. He has no room for despair now, not with what he’s about to do. 

“Stiles, I love you, okay?” he asks, and ducks his head, searching for the spark inside him that made him something more than just Scott McCall, asthmatic teenager. 

“Scott, I -” 

There’s no time. The bear turns toward Stiles and lumbers forward, raising up on its back legs and reaching back with one paw to strike at him. It’s big and slow, and Stiles dodges one blow, but the second knocks him from his feet, a sick crunch sounding throughout the wood as he hits the ground. 

“Stiles, no -!” Scott screams, and barrels forward, heedless of the danger. He can feel something happening as he runs, the shift taking over him one piece at a time - first his teeth elongating in his mouth, then his nails transforming into claws, then an unfamiliar power roaring through him as he charges at the bear. 

He stops just short, the bear’s full attention on him now that Stiles is prone on the snowy ground, blood welling up from deep scrapes across his shoulder. Scott sees it, sees the shredded material of Stiles’ fluffy down coat, the way blood sluggishly spills out of his slashed skin. He channels his anger, his helplessness, his fear, his love - every strong emotion he’s felt come alive in him since Stiles showed up on his doorstep, he grabs at it and forces it up, out, into the air between him and the bear. He roars. 

The sound echoes loudly through the trees, sounding like ten wolves rather than just one. The bear looks around, like it’s unsure of where the sound starts and stops, and roars back in challenge. Scott takes a deep breath and answers him, staking his claim over Stiles’ body by stepping between them, claws up and ready to fight. He’s not sure he can take an animal this size, but it doesn’t matter - there’s nothing to do but fight. He reaches out and claws at the bear’s belly, its thick hide protecting it from the worst of the damage. Still, it falls to all fours once more. Scott roars another challenge, his voice amplified by the trees and the snow, shaking the very limbs around them. He raises his hand for another swipe, prepared to die defending Stiles’ limp body. 

The bear turns and runs, chased by the echo of Scott’s voice. Scott stands there, breathing hard, claw raised in the air as he watches it go. 

“Scotty?” Stiles asks groggily. Scott falls to his knees instantly, all the adrenaline leaving his system at once as the bear leaves even his field of vision, disappearing into the hazy horizon of the quickly dimming forest. 

“Hey,” Scott says, cradling Stiles’ head in his lap. He can feel the shift receding, but apparently his eyes are still red enough for Stiles to notice. 

“You shifted?” he asks, shaking his head to clear it. “You - you actually did it? You scared it off?” 

“I did it,” Scott agrees. “I scared it off. I - you were hurt, it was going to kill you, and I -” 

“You did it,” Stiles finishes for him, smiling despite the pain he must be in from his shoulder. Scott helps him up to sitting, careful not to jostle him too much. “I’m so proud of you.” 

“Stop it,” Scott laughs, and -  _ oh god _ \- tears come to his eyes, his relief giving way to something harder to swallow. He could have died.  _ Stiles _ could have died. A wave of feeling washes over him, leaving him scrambling for the shore. Tears freeze on his cheeks as he gently lifts Stiles up, strength vibrating violently through his body despite no longer being shifted. It feels strange, being so connected to his wolf once more, but good too. It feels better than he’s felt in a long time. 

“Come on,” Stiles says quietly, thumbing Scott’s tears away with his right hand, cradling his left arm close to his body, protective. “Let’s get home.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, feeling the word resonate deep inside him, especially coming off of Stiles’ tongue. “Home. Let’s do that.” 


	27. Chapter 27

Scott guides Stiles carefully inside the cabin even though by now Stiles knows the way almost as well as Scott does. Stiles hisses at the way the fabric pulls from his torn shoulder as they maneuver his coat off. The cuts aren’t deep, but they’re wide, and the cold air  stuck the fabric of Stiles’ undershirt to them. 

“We have to get them clean,” Scott says softly, focusing on Stiles so he doesn’t have to think about what he did, or how he did it. Their outer layers get shed along with their boots, and they make their way to the bathroom, shuffling close together despite the warmth inside the cabin. Scott pours warm water over Stiles shoulder, using it to unstick his undershirt from the wound. Stiles hisses again. “I’m sorry -” 

“I know,” Stiles says, gruff. “Let’s just get this part over with, huh?” 

Scott peels Stiles’ shirt off as gently as he can, tossing the ruined thing aside. He goes for the first aid kit under the sink, hands shaking with leftover adrenaline and nerves. He feels wrung out, exhausted, but weirdly energized at the same time, and he can’t imagine the pain Stiles is in on top of that. With a clean cloth, Scott carefully cleans the torn skin with warm water, then pats it dry. It’s hard to look at, knowing how much pain it’s causing Stiles. He snorts, thinking about how far he’s come, that wounds make his stomach clench tight now. 

“Share the joke,” Stiles says, studiously not watching as Scott smooths antibiotic ointment over the shallow cuts. 

“I wanted to be a vet,” Scott says softly, fingers moving deftly over Stiles’ broken skin. “Now looking at you hurt makes me hurt.” 

“I think that could have happened if you were a vet, too,” Stiles says softly. “Nobody wants to see someone they -  _ ow _ \- they care about injured.” 

Scott hums in acknowledgement, reaching for the bandages. He tapes the bandage to Stiles’ skin with medical tape, and wraps it around his shoulder like a shoulder pad, covering the whole thing in white gauze. 

“There, that’s -” Scott gets out, before Stiles rounds on him and kisses him, hungry and demanding. Scott melts against the bathroom door, his hands trapped between their chests, his mouth soft and open for Stiles’ questing lips and tongue. That strange energy animating his limbs coalesces into a bright spark in his chest, bringing them closer together as he slides one hand around Stiles’ neck and the other slips down to Stiles’ waist. 

“You’re hurt,” he protests weakly when Stiles pulls away, just a few inches so they can both catch their breath. 

“So make me feel better,” Stiles says with a shrug, and a wince immediately after. “We almost died today, Scott. I need to feel - something other than that. You. I need to feel you.” 

“Okay,” Scott agrees readily. He wants it just as much, wants Stiles’ hands on his body, Stiles’ mouth and his cock. He steps into Stiles’ space once more, kissing him with more intent. He nips at Stiles’ mouth, teasing, but follows it up with soothing licks and kisses that make Stiles’ lips curl into a smile under his own. 

“C’mon,” Scott guides him out of the bathroom, pulling him gently by his uninjured arm. Scott walks backwards through the cabin, heading for the bedroom, but Stiles shakes his head and gestures toward the banked fireplace instead. 

“You get your fluffy blanket while I build this up,” he instructs, and Scott wastes no time getting to the bedroom. He pulls the blanket from the bed in one sweep of his arms, and then - thinking ahead - he grabs Stiles’ bottle of lube from inside the nightstand. He has a feeling they’re going to need it. 

Scott spreads the blanket out on the floor in front of the fireplace, white comforter covering the floorboards like snow. The fire crackles cheerfully as he undresses, eager to get Stiles’ hands on his skin. By the time Stiles turns around he’s down to his boxer briefs, and he blushes at Stiles’ pointed look. 

“Starting without me?” Stiles asks, hands going to his own zipper. Scott stops him, reaching out with both arms to pull Stiles close to him.

“Let me do it,” he says softly. “You’re hurt.” 

“I’ve got some scrapes on my shoulder,” Stiles argues, though he doesn’t move to stop Scott as he unbuttons Stiles’ jeans and peels them down so Stiles can step out of them. “I’m not an invalid.” 

As if to prove his point,  Stiles uses both arms to wrap around Scott’s body, pulling him in for another kiss. It’s hot and slow, both of them luxuriating in the fact that they’re together and alive. Scott’s knees feel weak, and he clings to Stiles to stay upright. When they finally break apart, neither of them goes far, unwilling to put more space between themselves.

“If you’re going to kiss me like that again,” Scott says, “we might want to be closer to the ground.” 

“Feeling a little lightheaded?” Stiles grins, and kisses him again. They sink to the floor in tandem, the blanket under them cushioning their knees. Stiles kisses him all the way down, until Scott’s on his back on the floor, arching up into Stiles. 

“I’ve been wanting to make love to you right here ever since the first time I saw this fireplace,” Stiles whispers, grinning down at him with something wild and sharp behind his eyes. It lights Scott up, makes him hot and achy as his cock twitches in his briefs. He scrabbles for the forgotten bottle of lube, pushing it into Stiles’ hand. 

“Want you to - to -” Scott says, blushing. Stiles doesn’t seem to need him to finish. 

“Want me to take care of you sweetheart?” he asks, leaning in to press their foreheads together. Scott’s eyes close automatically, leaving him hyper aware with the rest of his senses. He’s flooded with an almost violent sense of wellbeing. His nose is as sharp as it’s ever been, picking up the scent of arousal rolling off of Stiles with ease. He can hear the way Stiles’ heart beats in his chest, faster now, skipping a beat as their hips roll together. His skin is hot and dewed with sweat everywhere it touches Stiles’ skin. And taste - he tips his head up so he can kiss Stiles again, taste his mouth, his lips, breathe in his breath. 

“Please,” he asks, spreading his legs around Stiles’ body, rolling his hips up to meet Stiles’ own. 

Within moments, both of their briefs are gone, tossed aside with very little care. Stiles’ hand wraps around his cock, stroking hard and fast, and Scott sees stars. It’s so good, feels amazing, feels like everything he wants, except - 

It’s not quite everything he wants. 

He places his hand over Stiles’ and guides it down, down, between his legs, past his balls, until Stiles’ fingers get the hint and caress him where he wants them most. Stiles’ eyebrows go up as he meets Scott’s eyes, questioning, but Scott just nods. 

“Please,” he asks again, and Stiles’ answering grin is blinding. 

Stiles’ fingers are just as good as they always are, long and lean, stretching him carefully. He starts with one, slipping it easily into Scott’s hole. With his heightened senses, it’s hard for Scott not to come right then and there. He rocks his hips into Stiles’ hand, arching wantonly on the blanket. 

“Gorgeous,” Stiles says softly, and Scott didn’t think he could blush anymore than he already was, but his cheeks get hotter, and a line of color stripes from his face down to his chest. He rolls his eyes, huffing a little, but Stiles strokes his finger across Scott’s prostate and all of his resistance crumbles. “That’s right. You’re so beautiful, Scotty.” 

It still feels strange, hearing Stiles say such sweet things. If his tongue was sharp, Scott could deal with it, would expect it even - but instead, it’s sweetness and honey pouring over him, soothing wounds he didn’t know he had, and he doesn’t know how to deal with the way his heart overflows from it. 

“More, please,” he gasps. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to give him what he asks for, sliding another finger inside him. He’s used to the stretch of Stiles’ fingers by now, after weeks of Stiles fingering him just to drive him wild. He wants more, wants Stiles’ cock to fill him up. 

“Hurry,” he urges, but Stiles shakes his head,  dead-set on taking his time. He strokes his fingers in and out of Scott’s body, dripping with cool, tacky lube. He rubs over Scott’s prostate every few strokes, keeping him guessing, aching for the stimulation. Stiles kisses him, mouth demanding and sweet at the same time. By the time he slips a third finger inside of Scott, they’re both panting and squirming, past ready. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Stiles asks, even though Scott knows it must be killing him. He’s been so patient, so sweet, and Scott can’t think of a better way to reward him - to reward them both for how far they’ve come. 

“I want it,” Scott assures him, pulling Stiles close. “I want you, inside me. Please, Stiles, I can’t wait any longer -” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Stiles whispers. He slicks himself up and settles between Scott’s thighs. His weight settles something inside of Scott, soothes his nerves and helps him breathe easy. For a moment Stiles just lays there, rocking the two of them together, until Scott’s relaxed underneath him. Only then does he push. 

Stiles’ cock sliding inside of him is like nothing Scott’s ever felt before. He gasps, clenching tight around the intrusion, and tears spring to his eyes. It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but it feels strange and uncomfortable, overwhelming. Stiles instantly stops moving, one hand coming up to run gently through Scott’s hair while the other grips Scott’s hand, holding it up next to his head. 

“Relax for me sweetheart,” Stiles says,  his voice all softness. He leans in to kiss Scott again, his lips and tongue convincing Scott to open for him. He reaches down to stroke Scott’s cock and it feels so good that Scott’s legs fall further open, the tension spooling out of his spine a bit. 

“That’s right baby,” Stiles praises him, rocking his hips in minute circles, giving Scott just enough friction without pushing all the way in. “You’re doing so well Scotty. Just stay relaxed for me, I promise it’ll feel good.” 

Scott looks up at him with wide eyes, sure every emotion he has is playing over his face. Stiles is gorgeous above him, the firelight flickering over his skin making him look gilded. His eyes are dark with lust, honey-whiskey swallowed up by dilated pupils, and his mouth is red and swollen from kissing, from his teeth biting into his bottom lip. If his arm hurts he doesn’t seem to notice it, holding tightly to Scott’s hand as he circles his hips, carefully drawing part of the way out before pushing back in, slow and smooth. The slick slide of him starts to feel good as Scott relaxes, as he pushes back against Stiles’ thrusts. Stiles’ thick cock rubs against his prostate, sparking pleasure deep inside of Scott, and he chases that pleasure, rocking his hips to meet Stiles’ own. It only takes a few minutes for him to adjust before Stiles is sinking in all the way, their bodies pressed tightly together. 

“Fuck - oh my -” Stiles breathes, and then laughs softly at himself. “You feel so good -” 

“You do too,” Scott says, and he means it - Stiles’ body over him, inside of him, around him, feels so much better than anything’s felt in so long, he almost doesn’t know how to bear it. 

Stiles rolls his hips, and Scott can’t help but moan at the feeling. Stiles’ hand on him, his cock rubbing against Scott’s prostate on every thrust, brings him to the edge so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. 

“I’m - I’m close,” he whispers, and Stiles moans in response,  picking up the pace. He strokes Scott quicker, fucks into him faster, overwhelming him with pleasure. He can barely breathe it feels so good. He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth dropping open on a gasp as his body ratchets up tight before he comes, spilling all over Stiles’ hand. It only takes a few more thrusts before Stiles is falling over the edge with him, loud and unbridled. 

“I love you,” Stiles breathes, ghosting his lips over Scott’s neck as they both come down, panting. He more or less collapses on top of Scott, but Scott doesn’t mind; he loves the feeling of Stiles’ weight pinning him to the floor, holding him down and in and under. It feels better than anything he’s let himself have in the last ten years. 

“I love you too,” Scott says, drunk on feeling and firelight. That must be the reason he says it, desperate-sounding, tears springing to his eyes: 

“Stiles, please don’t leave me.” 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler-iffic warnings at the end of the chapter.

“Don’t leave you?” Stiles asks, sitting up a little so he can see Scott eye to eye. His face scrunches in concern as he gently wipes Scott’s tears from one cheek. “Why on earth would I leave you, Scott? I only just now found you.”

“The ice roads will be ready soon,” Scott explains, voice hitching. “You’ll - you’ll be able to get to the airport then. And I just thought…”

“You thought that after ten years of searching for you, I’d be fine with leaving your side after two months?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “You thought I could just go back to a regular life without you, knowing you were here and miserable and alone -”

“I’m not alone,” Scott interrupts, looking around for Vesta for the first time since they got back to the cabin. She’s sleeping in the entryway to the bedroom, barring the door. He guesses he should be grateful she didn’t decide to interrupt them earlier.

“Fine, alone except for a very protective dog,” Stiles says, and he sounds - he sounds _angry_ , smells bitter and acrid over the scents that Scott recognizes as sweat and sex and _Stiles_. “You expect me to just leave you here alone with your dog? What am I supposed to do, Scott? Go home and tell your mom that you’re just fine on your own and I’ll come back when it’s not quite so cold?”

“No, I -” Scott stumbles, sitting up. He wraps the edge of the blanket around himself protectively, glad for the covering even though he’s plenty warm now, heart beating fast. “I didn’t think -”

“You didn’t think,” Stiles agrees, reaching for his boxers and practically shoving himself into them. Scott cringes a little watching him, the angry boy of their youth resurfacing. “What kind of person would that make me, Scott? If I just left you here?”

“The kind of person with a life left to live,” Scott says a little desperately. His eyes well up again and he doesn’t want to cry but he can’t help the way the tears spill over his cheeks as he thinks about what Stiles is proposing giving up. “You could have a life Stiles - a job and a partner and, and children and a house, you could have -”

“You could have all of that too,” Stiles says, softening some. He reaches for Scott, strokes a hand down the side of his face to soothe him. “You could have all of that with _me_. Whatever you want, we’ll make it work. All you have to do is come home.”

Scott’s heart stops.

“Go home?” he asks, and this time he’s the incredulous one, he’s the one who sounds a little squeaky with feeling. Fear, anger, bitterness well up in him and he can’t stop them. “You want me to go home, where they’ll find me and I’ll be killed? Sacrificed to the Nemeton so - so some evil witches can take over the world? That’s your big plan?”

“Scotty, how likely is it that they’re even still looking for you?” Stiles asks, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s been ten years. For all we know, the Circle of Ten is dead, or at the very least broken. There’s been no sign of them around Beacon Hills in all the time I’ve been on the road - hell, Mary Webb was in Mexico last time I saw her.”

Scott flinches at the name, at Stiles speaking of the Circle so boldly. It’s always been a safely guarded secret for him, and now that it’s out in the open he’s not sure how to handle it.

“So what do you propose we do?” he asks, honest and uncertain. “We just - go home? Pretend there’s no one out to get me? Hope for the best?”

“Hope for the best, yeah,” Stiles nods, “and set up magical reinforcements. There are things Lydia can do that you wouldn’t believe. We’ll get the pack involved, make sure you don’t have to go places alone. They miss you. They’d be happy to go grocery shopping with you, or run errands, or whatever it is you need to do. We could set up shifts -”

“You want me to go home so, what, I can look over my shoulder for the rest of my life?”

“Not the rest of your life,” Stiles says with a stubborn set to his jaw. “Only until I find them all.”

“You’re going to track down the entire Circle of Ten and - kill them?” Scott asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“They’d kill you,” Stiles says, daring Scott to disagree with him. “They’ve killed already. They ruined your life, your happiness, for a decade. Yes, I’d kill them all.”

For a moment everything is silent, so silent that Scott thinks he could almost hear the falling of snow outside the window. He soaks Stiles’ words in, blinking at his lover, his love, in an owlish sort of way. He’s still blinking when Vesta begins to growl.

Stiles looks toward her with furrowed brows. It’s the first time she’s growled since that night Scott had the nightmare, when Stiles was still new to the cabin.

“Vesta -” Scott starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. In a deafening blast of power, the door to the cabin comes off its hinges, winter wind swirling into the room. Scott gathers his blanket around him as he leaps to his feet, wishing for the protection of his winter layers. His heart beats fast, so hard it feels like it’s going to come out of his chest, and his breath comes shallow and quick.

It’s happening. They’ve found him. They’ve found them both.

“Scott, stay right there -” Stiles says, voice low and calm, but then another blast knocks Stiles off his feet, sending him careening to the side of the room where he smacks into the wall with a thud. He doesn’t get up. Scott starts to reach for him, but suddenly it feels like his limbs are moving through running water, fighting the current just to stay upright. He gapes toward the doorway, panic responses kicking in full gear. He can’t control the way his features shift, his teeth elongate and his claws come out.

“The true alpha is finally found,” a husky voice says from the shadows just outside the door. She steps through blonde head first, and Scott’s heart sinks into his stomach as he watches her straighten. She looks older than his brief memory of her - but then, it has been ten years.

“Mary -” he gets out, before magic is choking him, filling his mouth and throat, keeping him silent. He can’t breathe through it, like water filling his lungs, and he coughs, grasping at his throat.

“So you remember me,” Mary says, stepping fully into the light. She snaps her fingers and Scott’s suddenly on all fours, coughing up river water onto the floor. Flashes of his nightmares come back to him -

_Running through the trees as the branches reach for him, tearing at his clothes._

_Allison diving off of the cliff into the forest while he cheers her on from the sidelines._

_Peter Hale’s extended hand and the river closing over his head._

He heaves, water spilling from his mouth, and his eyes sting from tears that will spill over any second. Everything smells like the river that runs through the preserve - rushing water, decay, the scent of deep earth. He doesn’t know how she’s drawing her power from the Nemeton from this far away, but it’s obvious that Mary has tapped into the spirit of the preserve somehow. His brain spins, overwhelmed with fear and pain, wondering - _if she can bring the preserve all the way up here, what’s stopping her from bringing me back there?_

“You gave us quite a chase, Scott,” she says, and her voice reverberates with a sort of power that Scott remembers from the other alpha. Whatever Mary Webb has been doing for the past ten years, she’s grown far more powerful than the initiate she was before. “You couldn’t hide forever though. Not with both of us looking for you.”

“Both -?” Scott gets out, panting as he holds himself on his hands and knees, surrounded by wet blanket.

“Your friend, of course - or more than friend, if my eyes don’t deceive me. Everyone that encountered Stilinski knew what he was looking for. He made no effort to hide it, no matter how much you might have wished he would. All I had to do was put a tracker on him and wait. The hardest part was actually getting here.”

As Mary steps forward again, toward Scott, Vesta leaps out from the bedroom with a snarl. It takes no more than Mary lifting a hand to repel her, send her flying across the room the same way Stiles did earlier, and Scott winces as Vesta hits the ground with a whimper.

“Leave her alone,” he growls, pushing himself up one shaky leg at a time. He feels weak and sore, like he’s been swimming upriver for days, but he manages to get to his feet, blanket held loosely around  his waist. If it comes down to a fight, he’ll have to let it go, but in the meanwhile it makes him feel safer to be covered from her prying eyes.

“I wish nothing more than to leave all of them alone. Stilinski, the dog, Beacon Hills, I want them all to be safe. Only you can make that happen though, Scott.” Mary draws closer to him, and in the firelight her features dance and jump, making her seem more unearthly than he knows she is.

“What do you want from me?” Scott asks, grateful that his voice doesn’t shake. He hitches the blanket a little higher on his hips, holding it steady with one hand.

“The Circle is broken,” Mary says without preamble. “Rowena was strong, but the rest of them were only as strong as their desire. Once you disappeared and Beacon Hills was  blocked off from us by your druid friends, the Circle waned until it was no more. Only someone with great power could rebuild it, make it even better than what it was. I’ve spent the past decade concentrating my power, using the sacrifices of those willing to give their lives for the cause -”

“What _cause_?” Scott spits. “You want power, and you’re willing to kill for it. Don’t try to make it sound like something more than it is.”

“You’re wrong,” she cuts back, and it sounds like she believes it. “The Circle’s work was invaluable. It was worth far more than any one life. And it can be revived.”

Scott glances toward Stiles near the edge of the room, but notices immediately that he isn’t where he landed. Scott tries to keep his face straight, his breathing even. If Stiles can sneak up on her -

“What was the Circle trying to do to begin with?” Scott asks, baiting her. “Besides _kill me_ , that is.”

“The power of the Nemeton is very great, and very old,” Mary says quietly. Scott shifts, trying to keep her focus on him. “Left untapped, it could be used by anyone  who happened to get their hands on it. It already has been used by many that were unworthy of it. The Circle seeks to harness the power of the Nemeton and keep it safe from those who would use it to destroy our world.”

Scott blinks. That - wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“You wanted to… protect it?” he asks warily. Then he straightens up, remembering the prison they’d held the other alpha in, the way they’d abused him before his murder. “And to do that you needed to kill people?”

“Sometimes sacrifices need to be made,” Mary concedes with an air of apology. She mutters a few words and in the air between them, an image forms, like a movie playing out in transparency. Scott sees Mary and some others, gathered around the Nemeton chanting. The sun is out, unlike pretty much every time _he_ ’s visited the tree, and power seems to glow in the air. In the image, Beacon Hills flourishes in front of his eyes, growing strong and proud. The abandoned buildings fill again, or are replaced with  neighborhoods and homes. Children play in the preserve in a way they never would have ten years ago. The jail is empty, the Sheriff at home playing with grandchildren Scott knows he doesn’t have. His mom leaves her shift at the hospital with a smile on her face, meets up with a man he doesn’t know and kisses him on the mouth after getting into his car. Stiles lives a happy life with his wife, a pretty brunette Scott will never meet, and it’s too much to take in, too hard to watch. Scott reaches for the picture, dashing through it with his hand, and it gutters out.

“Why are you showing me this?” he demands.

“To show you what the Circle wanted,” Mary replies. “What I still want. Peace. Prosperity.  Safety for the people of Beacon Hills. Isn’t that what you want, too, Scott?”

“Of course it is,” Scott says, a little defensively. “That’s what I was fighting for. All that time, that’s what I was trying to accomplish.”

“And you could accomplish it, with my help. All you have to do is -”

“Die?”

Everything is silent as Scott lets that sink in. Maybe Mary has a point; if his death could bring about that much good for everyone he loves -

“Don’t even think about it, Scotty,” Stiles’ voice sounds from the bedroom door, and Scott has just enough time to get down before  a series of shots ring out from the gun in his hand. The witch collapses onto the floor, dead before she even registered Stiles’ words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Gun violence, minor character death, almost / simulated drowning, light suicidal ideation, and vomit (gross). I think everything else is covered.


	29. Chapter 29

“Scott - Scotty,” Stiles says, grasping Scott by the shoulders and forcing himself in between Scott and the body on the floor. Scott collapses into Stiles’ arms, clinging to him desperately. Feelings overwhelm him and he shies away from his own thoughts. A woman is dead. He shouldn't feel  _ relieved _ . “You're okay, it’s alright Scott. I've got you. I'm going to take care of this, don't you worry.”

“She found me,” is what comes out of Scott’s mouth. “She - even all the way up here, she found me. I can never get away.” 

Stiles doesn’t say anything to that, just pulls Scott close and holds him as Scott trembles in his arms. They stay there for a long moment, just breathing one another in, before Stiles pulls away apologetically and brushes Scott’s hair back from his face. 

“I need to clean this up,” he says. “You - get dressed, see about Vesta. Think about what you want to do now.” 

Scott nods, mind already spinning. He gives Mary’s body a wide berth as he goes to the bedroom, wet blanket bound up in his arms. He dresses quickly, perfunctorily, like he used to before Stiles woke up his body once more. His layers come on easily as he tries not to think about the implications of Mary showing up here. Sure, she’s dead, but if she found him…

So could the rest of them. 

He shakes his head, eager to see to Vesta. When he gets back to the living room, Mary’s body is gone, leaving only a bloody pool on the floor. He skirts that as well, stomach tightening, and instead focuses on the prone body of his dog. Her chest rises and falls slow and steady, and Scott nearly sobs with relief that she’s still alive. He crouches down on the floor next to her and shakes her gently, stroking a hand through her fur.

“Wake up, Vesta, c’mon girl,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her furry head. She stiffens under his hands, coming awake suddenly, and he strokes her all the way down her back to check for injuries as she gets to her feet. As soon as she’s up, she’s crawling over him, knocking him onto the ground and standing over his body protectively, licking his face. 

“I know, I know,” Scott says, heart lighter. He pets her affectionately from his spot on the floor, letting her settle over him. “I’m glad you’re okay too. I’m so glad you’re okay. I was worried -” 

He breaks off, tears in his eyes. It seems like he can’t go ten minutes without crying today, but then, it’s been a rough twenty-four hours. He barely remembers waking up this morning, the way Stiles had held him and brought him off with eager hands before they ever rolled out of bed. He remembers the date again with a shudder - New Year’s Eve has passed in a blur of fear and love, triumph and trauma. 

Vesta licks at his face, bringing him out of his thoughts once more and into the present. Scott sighs, grateful for her, to her, grateful that she’s still here and making his life better. He wonders what it would be like, bringing Vesta home to California, where it’s warm and sunny most of the year, and even when it’s cold it doesn’t get near the cold she’s known all of her life. 

“Think you could do it Vesta?” he asks, scratching behind her ears. She licks him again in answer, and he huffs a tiny laugh. “Think you could get used to the heat and the rain instead of snow most of the year?” 

Vesta just whines a little, pawing at the floor, and then settles next to him, obviously unwilling to leave Scott for a moment. Scott buries his fingers in her fur. He doesn’t mind. 

He drifts for a while, thinking about his options. If the witches could find him here, they could find him anywhere. He doesn’t know what Mary meant when she said that Beacon Hills was closed to the Circle of Ten, but he has to assume that’s why Deaton left - he’d done something to protect the town, protect Scott’s friends and family, his pack. If he went back, he might be opening them all back up to danger, to destruction and death. 

Then again, he might not. The Circle is broken, and while the greatest danger - Rowena - lives on, there’s no promise that she’d even still be looking for Scott. Not when he’s been gone so long. 

And if she is, well… it’s worth it, he decides. Being at home, seeing his mother and his pack, living more than just this cold half-life that he’s been living, being with Stiles - all that is worth so much more than he could have imagined when he was eighteen and running for his life. 

Stiles comes in out of the cold and grabs a packet of something out of his bag. He spreads it on the stain on the floor and mops it up, the blood coming up clean off the wooden floorboards despite their porousness. Scott marvels at it a little bit, when he can stop thinking about it as someone’s lifeblood. 

“That’s handy,” he says after a while, the quiet getting to him. Stiles looks up from where he’s working, cleaning up the last of the mess, and nods. 

“Tricks of the trade, I guess,” he says. He’s guarded, obviously unsure of where they stand now. 

“It was self-defense,” Scott says softly. “She - she would have killed us both, if she’d had any more time. She’d almost convinced me to let her.” 

“I know,” Stiles says, though he looks relieved. “I just didn’t know if you knew.” 

He tosses the towel over by the door and rises with a grace that his younger self never knew. There are a lot of things his younger self didn’t know - how to slow down, how to love without breaking, how to get rid of a body. He’s a different person than he was before, but so is Scott, and that might be what makes all the difference. 

“Come here,” Scott says softly, beckoning him in, and Stiles meets him halfway, folding Scott up in his arms and holding him close. Scott wraps around his waist, eager to press against him despite the layers of clothing in between them. 

“Let’s go home,” Scott says, voice so quiet he can barely hear himself. Somehow, though, Stiles hears him. Stiles always hears him. 

“Okay,” he says, brushing a kiss over Scott’s hair. “As soon as the passes clear, we’ll go. All three of us.” 

 

“It’ll be sad to see you leave, son,” Mr. Baker says as he accepts the keys from Scott, three weeks later. “I don’t know who’d take as good care of the place as you have. But I’m happy if you’re happy.” 

Scott smiles at him, gladness spilling out of him all over. “I’m very happy, Mr. Baker. Vesta and I will miss you though.” 

“My girl,” Baker says, leaning down to pet her and offer her a treat from the stash he keeps behind the counter. “You take good care of my girl down there in California. Ya know they don’t keep it quite cool enough there for our kind.” 

“I know,” Scott says dutifully. “I’ll take good care of her though. She’ll be inside most of the time, and we’ll just keep the air on high for her.” 

“You’re sure we can’t convince ya ta stay?” Baker asks, key sitting in his open hand. Scott considers it for a moment. Stiles could always stay up here with him. Their costs are low, their lives would be simple, they’d be ready for it if another witch came to attack. But then he thinks about his mother, about her voice on the phone when he told her he was coming home, the way she cried and told him she missed him. He thinks about Malia and Kira, who squealed when Stiles called them, and Braeden’s promise to come home to Beacon Hills if he did. He thinks about Deaton and the way he said, “It’s your decision, Scott. I’ll support whatever you do,” but it sounded like, “I’m proud of you.” 

“I’m sure,” he says. Stiles comes up behind him, puts his hands on Scott’s shoulders and squeezes. 

“Check-in’s at 3,” Stiles reminds him, and Scott checks his watch - they have just enough time to grab a milkshake and say goodbye to Ezra before they need to be at the lodge. 

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Baker,” Scott says, and grabs the old man into a hug. Baker pats him, gruff and standoffish at first but slowly relenting until he’s hugging Scott back just as tight. 

“Don’t be a stranger, son,” he says with suspiciously bright eyes. “The cabin’s always here if you need it.” 

 

That night Stiles pulls him close in front of the fireplace, kissing the back of Scott’s neck as they warm up from their last foray out to see the northern lights. 

“Will you miss it?” Stiles asks softly, his broad palms sliding over Scott’s skin, chafing him warm. 

“Some things,” Scott admits. “I don’t hate the cold as much as I used to. I’ll miss the lights, and some of the people. The forest. I’ll miss woodworking -” 

“You can keep that up, as long as we have a real couch for me to sit on,” Stiles cuts in, amusement heavy in his voice. 

“It won’t be the same without the forest right here,” Scott says, and Stiles hums in acknowledgment. “That’s all pretty small stuff, though, in the long run. Compared to everything I missed while I was here? It doesn’t stand a chance.” 

“And was I one of the things you missed while you were here?” Stiles asks, and Scott barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes, laughing at the absurdity of the question. 

“Am I not complimenting you often enough?” he asks, turning in Stiles’ arms to face him. “I love you, Stiles. I’m in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life, however long it is, by your side, wherever we happen to end up. That would be true if I was here in a little cabin in the woods, or in a big city, or back home in Beacon Hills. Without you, none of it really matters.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Stiles says, and dips him back for a kiss that does more to warm Scott up than any amount of rubbing or standing close to the fireplace. 

“One thing I am going to miss,” Scott says softly when they break apart, “is making love to you by firelight.”

“Oh, you’re not going to miss that at all.” Stiles grins, tugging Scott back toward the bed with both hands. “I made sure our new apartment has a gas fireplace, just for you.” 

Scott laughs, and follows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. There's going to be a short epilogue up sometime soon, but for the main body of the story, this is the end. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. <3


	30. Chapter 30

“I really don’t think I need anything else,” Scott says, steering the cart around the corner of the aisle. It’s already halfway full of things he’s not really sure he needs - sugary cereal, little cakes, instant soup, fresh berries, ice cream. He’s got soda for Stiles and treats for Vesta and a bouquet of flowers Malia talked him into buying because he was admiring them. 

“They’ll look great on your table,” she says, seeing him eye them one more time. “You already put them in the cart. If you take them out now, a grocery store worker’s going to have to put them back.” 

“I could put them back where I got them,” Scott says, but he knows he isn’t going to. She’s right - they’ll look great on the table. And he likes them. He gets to do this now, buy things that he likes pretty much whenever he wants. Within reason, of course. He’s taking classes part time at Beacon Hills University, still acclimating himself to the rest of the world again, so he doesn’t have much spending money of his own, but Stiles works at the Sheriff’s station and never seems to be worried about how they’ll pay the bills, so Scott does his best not to worry about it either. 

Malia checks her phone, something she does a lot more now than she used to, and her face brightens a little. 

“Kira?” he asks, voice hopeful. They’re together now, Malia and Kira are, and usually where one is the other follows post-haste. Scott likes it. They make a good match, and he’s happy that they’re both happy. 

“She’s waiting for us at your house,” Malia confirms. “Let’s get checked out, if you don’t need anything else.” 

“I don’t really  _ need _ any of this,” Scott says, but it’s an argument he’s never going to win. Malia’s just as dedicated to his comfort as the rest of the pack is, and far less subtle about it than most. 

“If anyone needs ice cream and snack cakes, it’s you,” she says, steering the cart with one strong arm on the side of it, sort of dragging Scott along with it. He laughs and hurries to keep up. He doesn’t look over his shoulder anymore, not like he did when they first got back. The past year and a half has been harder in many ways than he’d ever have assumed it would be, but it’s been far easier too, slotting back into a life that feels like it was waiting for him to return. He follows Malia’s lead as she guides him toward the checkout lanes. They bag his groceries together, and split the bags between them to carry them out to the car - a little coupe Stiles brought home for Scott last year. It took a long time for him to get used to driving on real roads, especially since he hadn’t done it a whole lot before he left. Now, he tosses the keys to Malia and lets her maneuver them out of the parking lot, down the many one-way lanes to get back to their little rental house in Beacon Hills proper. 

Their house isn’t in the same neighborhood that Scott grew up in, but it’s only about ten minutes from his mom’s house. They drive past it on the way, and Scott fights the urge to wave as they go by. All the lights are off and his mother’s car isn’t in the driveway, so he knows she must be working, even though she said she was off all weekend. They probably needed an extra hand at the hospital and Melissa, as usual, couldn’t say no. 

“Have you seen her lately?” Malia asks, nodding toward the house as they pass it. 

“We had dinner last Thursday,” Scott says, smiling to himself. They do that often now, at least once a week. Stiles’ schedule at the sheriff’s station is erratic, but Scott rarely ever eats alone; there’s always someone around, a packmate or a parent or, now, a friend from school who’s over to study. Scott had forgotten how easy it is to make friends when he’s actually trying, being open and letting people see him. He doesn’t have a lot of friends outside the pack, but there are a few of his classmates he’s gotten close to since the summer, and he sends Ezra and Mr. Baker each a postcard in the mail once every few months, just updating them on his life. 

As they pull into Scott’s block, he blinks at the number of cars lining the road. Normally his neighborhood is quiet, but today it seems there are cars in front of every house along his street. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, glancing at Malia. She shrugs and pulls into his driveway, where Kira’s little moped is already parked. Stiles’ cruiser is in the garage even though he isn’t supposed to be home for hours yet, and Scott notices Derek and Braeden’s SUV out of the corner of his eye. “Malia?” 

“Let’s just go inside,” Malia says, never one to mince words. Scott gathers up his ice cream and flowers and heads for the door, Malia right behind him. The door pushes open without a key in the lock, and inside for a moment everything is dark and still, deathly quiet. Scott steps forward, heart in his throat, and flips on the overhead light with the switch by the door. 

“SURPRISE!” 

Scott takes a step back, running into Malia, and drops his bags. Luckily she’s quick on the draw and catches the flowers before they get crushed under the big bag of dog treats. All of Scott’s friends seem to pour out of hiding spots all over the room, and Stiles leads them, making his way across the little living space to wrap Scott up in a hug. Vesta’s right behind him. 

“Happy birthday Scotty,” Stiles says softly, pulling him inside. Scott goes with him easily, a smile spreading slowly over his face. 

“Scott,” Braeden says, bulling Stiles out of the way so she can hug him herself. She’s strong and warm and her hair smells amazing, and Scott hums a little before she lets him go. Derek waves from behind her, teeth in his lip. He’s working on a degree in folklore at a university north of here somewhere, and only comes down on school breaks or for special occasions. Scott warms at the thought that apparently his birthday qualifies as special enough for a visit. 

“I thought you were on the other side of the country,” Scott says to Braeden. She just shrugs. 

“Like a bad penny,” she says. “You never know where I’ll turn up.” 

“Don’t let her act all coy,” Stiles breaks in, grinning. “She’s been talking about this for weeks. The surprise part was her idea.” 

Braeden waves him off but her small smile is enough to confirm Stiles’ words. 

Malia comes bearing Kira and the bouquet of flowers, wrapped in parchment paper. Scott takes them and holds them up to his nose, taking a deep sniff.

“It doesn’t count as a gift if you made him pick them out and buy them,” Stiles says, and Malia swats at him. 

“We brought him a gift. I just thought he might like these now.” 

“You didn’t need to get me a gift,” Scott protests, but then his eyes land on the huge pile of presents on the table in the corner and his protest dies on his lips. Obviously whether he needed them or not, gifts have been brought. He colors up a little, more pleased than he’d like to admit. His 28th birthday passed with so little fanfare that he hadn’t even remembered it was happening until the next day. His 29th, he spent alone with Stiles, still trying to get used to the company of the rest of the pack. This birthday is exactly what he needs right now: a rowdy bunch of friends and family, gathered together to celebrate. 

He scans the room, surprising himself at how many people came. Liam and Hayden are in the corner with their new baby, and Mason’s nearby. He’s sure Corey is around here somewhere, though he’s hard to spot. Argent talks quietly with Noah, beers in both of their hands. His mom is standing near Lydia and Cora, talking animatedly about something until he catches her eye and waves. She waves back, smile at about a hundred watts, and he has to catch his breath before he can move on. 

It’s hard to believe, all these people coming together to celebrate him, his birth, his return to society. He catches Stiles’ hand and squeezes it tight, communicating everything he can in that little motion - how grateful he is, how special he feels, how utterly head over heels in love he is with Stiles. Stiles leans in and kisses him, a perfunctory little kiss that leaves him wanting, and pulls back to whistle loudly. 

“Listen up! Today is a very special day. It’s Scotty’s 30th birthday. I want to thank everyone for coming out, especially those of you who came a long way -” He nods at Braeden and Derek, then at Lydia and Cora. 

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Lydia says, raising her glass of wine in Scott’s direction.

“And thanks to my dad, who got me out of a shift at work that he swore up and down he wasn’t going to be able to get me out of -” 

“This is the last time, Stiles,” Noah interrupts, but he’s laughing, and Stiles shrugs him off as if to say, “Sure dad.” 

“Anyway, as you all know, Scott here has spent a lot of birthdays not surrounded by his friends and family, and tonight I wanted to make sure that he got to be with all the people that love him most as we celebrate. And since no party is complete without a giant slice of cake, let’s go do that, and then I’ll let you all get back to visiting.” 

There are some quiet cheers, and Scott laughs as Malia says, “Hear, hear!” The small crowd gathers around their dining room table where a cake sits with a big number 30 written on it in icing, and roughly a million candles ringing the outside. 

“You’re not going to light all those, are you?” Scott asks, eyebrows raised. 

“What else do you do with birthday candles Scott?” Stiles asks back, flicking a lighter. He’s still in his uniform from work, and Scott hates how much that does things to him, how much he wants Stiles to take him back to their bedroom, press him down to the bed and - 

“Uh, aren’t you worried about the smoke alarm?” he asks, a little dazed. Stiles grins like he knows what Scott was thinking, and Scott flushes a little in response. Even after almost two years together, they’re still like this, still close in every way, still needy and handsy around one another. 

“Took the batteries out. Better blow ‘em out quick.” 

Stiles lights the candles with a flourish and Kira strikes up the singing, his friends’ voices melding in an imperfect harmony that makes Scott feel warm and a little soft inside. 

“...Happy birthday dear Sco-ott, happy birthday to you!” 

Scott takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and searches for a wish. A year and a half ago, his wish would have been easy. Now it’s almost impossible to find something he’d change. 

_ Let everything stay just like this _ , he thinks, and blows the candles out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this story to its completion and chimed in along the way. Your comments, questions, emotional responses, and even your concerns kept me going while I wrote this. I love you all and I'm looking forward to the next big project with you. Thank you. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


End file.
